Mouse

Mouse Page 9

by Brian Reynolds

  As if I could forget her, Mouse. The last four days my feet have barely touched the ground. My brain has zipped through time and space like Sputnik passing Pembroke, passing Orkney, passing Pembroke, hopping around on the moon in zero gravity with Neil Armstrong. It’s Monday, just a week since victims of the flood were herded onto planes and scattered south of here. Four days ago Watikwan flew “up” to Timmins (which is how they say it in the Arctic watershed; it’s only “down to Timmins” on a map) where, after an added day in bed to bring the swelling down, his tibia was properly aligned and then protected with a heavy plaster cast from mid-thigh down to cup his heel. Rosemary has been working day shifts ever since their plane arrived on Friday, but that’s another paragraph.

  Watikwan lies on my couch, his crutches on the floor beside him, the late morning sun already uncomfortably warm even with my windows open. He leafs through a picture book about a trip by rail across an Asian country, a book I chose based on its cover: vaguely reminiscent of a favourite Coleville painting. I’m at the kitchen table with my sketchbook open without sufficient motivation to lift my pencil. My stomach churns. My fingers twitch. My thoughts are just as twitchy. This afternoon I have a job to do that scares me. I have a speech to give and no idea what to say. I have a confrontation with the tiny nun who runs the stadium. I’m toast. Instead of screwing up my courage and working on the speech I dream about the past four days—so filled with drama I’m not convinced they really happened.

  You’d think a town reduced to less forty people (I’m counting men across the ice, the nuns, the nurses and their patients, Cheepash, Watikwan and me) would be relatively quiet if not absolutely silent. Not here. The pace on both sides of the ice is frantic—almost as hectic as it was those first days of the flood. Planes of every type land and take off round the clock. Strangers come and make decisions, make assessments, make excuses, make more promises, make the dust along the road and runway hang like fog. Already bucket brigades are planned to bring materials for home repair and reconstruction: lumber and plywood, doors and real windows, insulation and wiring, everything. Every nail and roofing truss gets loaded on a truck in Timmins and then reloaded on a plane for here. DC-3s will land in Orkney Post every other hour—everything offloaded here by hand. Helicopters (the two have now become three, this time commanded by the Chief and Council, not Hélène) sling supplies in nets across the ice. More families are coming back to camp with Thomas on the island, to help with all the handling before construction starts in earnest. So there’ll be tents and propane stoves to come as well. It won’t be long till Orkney Post reincarnates as a village made of canvass. A trail across the ice has been established, not that I’ve been tempted to make another crossing. I assume my job description now is staying out of trouble, avoiding any need for “rescue David Taylor” operations. I’m quite content to spend my time on picture books with Watikwan.

  My war with supervisors at our hospital and school is now a standoff. The trenches are quiet. Hélène struts around like her “off-limits” never happened and she pretends that I’m invisible. I’ve talked with Sr. Theresa, calmly—more or less. She hopes the school will open a week from today, right on schedule: the official end of the two-week hunt break—a time in which almost no one has had the opportunity to hunt the honking waves of geese now flying toward their nesting grounds a hundred miles north of here. Teachers are being notified the crisis is over; it’s safe to return. When I asked her how students were going to get across the ice, she shrugged and rolled her eyes unto the heavens, smiling of course. While it’s possible she’s relying on a miracle, more likely she knows her students will be expected to hoof it over the ice field. I haven’t been fired or threatened. In fact, she asked me to finish out the term, and of course I was happy to tell her I’d stay. She avoided mentioning my wife. She didn’t speculate about next year. When I asked her if could I use the radiophone this afternoon, she agreed with only a frown to show her concern. I’m sure she thinks if things were bad before, I’ll likely make them worse.

  That should sum things up quite nicely and satisfy your curious mind, dear Mouse. But no. Ah yes, I promised you Nurse Metatawabin. Yes, she was there to help her little brother off the plane last Friday afternoon. I might have been there too, watching as she coached him through the gravel, slowed him down and helped him negotiate the hospital stairs. She was first, of course, but I was second on the list to sign his cast. She moved him in with Cheepash who is staying in a small apartment on the first floor of the school for now. Her uncle told her he was worried I might drop my guard again and let his nephew wander on the ice—this time on crutches. She was able to negotiate a deal that let him come each afternoon to do his studies here. I was glad of that, but hurt that Cheepash didn’t trust me. He’s likely right, but I want him to think me worthy of respect. I’m not sure why that’s suddenly important. What knocked me off my chair, however, was when she blushed and said she thought the real reason he was taking the boy off my hands was so his niece would have more privacy.

  “You’re kidding. He wouldn’t actually say that. Really? He doesn’t think...” I literally sit down and absently scratch my head.

  “I’m trying not to think too much,” she answered.

  We took a lazy walk along the winter road that Friday after supper, and wound up back at our small lake to watch the muskrats swimming laps. It was there she taught me ininiwak don’t mind holding hands; they don’t mind compliments or flirting. She made a date for us to hike back there on Sunday. We’d bake a bannock on a stick beside an open fire. “We could maybe cook a goose,” she said, “twisting on a string. It’s called a sakabon. I’ll show you how. It’ll be the best meal you ever tasted.” And, of course, later on that evening, we practiced dancing once again. Practiced it again on Saturday and Sunday with our stomachs full of goose and bannock.

  “Dave?” asks Watikwan.

  I get up and go into the living room. “What’s up?”

  “Cheepash says there’s school next week.”

  “That’s what I hear. One week from today. How does that sound to you?”

  “I will have to go up a lot a stairs. Lots of stairs to get to the gym too.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. You manage the stairs up to my porch just fine. Same thing at the school. You’re good on crutches.”

  “You are always there if I need help. When Sister lets us come in from outside there are lots stairs and lots of kids. What if I fall? What if the other kids laugh?”

  “You’ll have lot’s of time to practice before then. Crutches can’t be harder than reading.”

  “What if I stay here and practice reading on your couch while you teach the other kids?”

  “I don’t think Sister’s going to like that plan very much. If you can’t manage by yourself by then, I’ll carry you up the stairs.”

  “That might be worse, Dave. Everyone would laugh for sure. I’m tired of this cast already. It itches a lot.”

  “You know what? I think the other kids will be pretty jealous. I’m a little jealous even. I think you’ll be a hero. Everybody will want to put their name on your cast. They’ll think you were very brave.”

  “Really? I think they will laugh even if they want one too.” He bites is his lip. “Wapikoshish says six more weeks. By then the snowbirds will be gone. What if I die from itching? Besides, I don’t believe you’re jealous, Dave.”

  “I’m green with envy.”

  “You’re white with envy. Are you telling me there are green people too? I don’t believe you. Anyway, aren’t we supposed to be reading?”

  “Right. Maybe it’ll take your mind off the cast.”

  “I don’t think so. None of these books are too interesting.”

  “I did the best I could, Watikwan. The ones back in the classroom are even worse.”

  “All the school books are boring, Dave. Sorry, but it’s true.”

  “I agree.” I glance up and see my sketchbook sitting somewhat mournfully on the kitc
hen table. Before I have a clear idea of what I’m saying, my mouth is moving. “Ok, how would you like to try this? We could write our own book and then we can make it as exciting as we want? Then we’d have one good book at least.”

  “It might be boring if it didn’t have pictures.”

  “You’re right again. But you’re an artist. You could make the pictures for it. Especially if there’s a mouse in the story.”

  “Can we do that?”

  “Of course we can. We can do anything we want to make this interesting. Let me get some paper.”

  He calls to me from the couch while I am in the studio rummaging. “What about Mickey Mouse hauling water across the bridge when breakup comes?”

  “Amazing! That doesn’t sound even a little bit boring.” I’m excited. It feels like a jolt of caffeine to hear the energy in his voice. Then for a second I am ashamed. I’m an artist. I’m an adult. Why did it take me so long to think of this? It’s so simple, and having him in charge is perfect! This has to work. I shake my head at all the time we’ve wasted. Then suddenly I’m angry. I’m not a professional. Why is it all these real teachers, Suzanne included, haven’t come around to me to show me how to do this? Why is it, all they talk about is lazy, hostile kids and how to punish them. “Christ!” I mumble.

  “What wrong, Dave?”

  I set the paper and coloured pencils down on the coffee table and watch the momentary worry melt from his face as he sits up and grabs for the art supplies. “Nothing. Not a single thing is wrong.”

  “Good. We have lots of work to do.” He’s smiling.

  Two hours later, after growling stomachs finally have their way and I convince him to take a break and eat some soup and sandwich, he’s still smiling. He's finished half a dozen pages of Mickey’s Breakup Adventure, and if I hadn’t already made a date with Sister, he’d do a dozen more right after lunch. I wish I still had his book, Mouse. I’d put them here for you. If the school had had a copier, if I didn’t feel so strongly they belonged to him and Orkney Post, yes I would have kept them. I wish that you could see them. They feature scenes in which his mother summons the Disney Mouse from a game of hockey; then she tells him to fetch water from the tap across the creek. There’s one of Mickey carrying pails swinging from the yoke across his shoulders, Mickey trapped with rising water at the bridge, him clinging to a block of ice while calling out for help. He tells me there are plans for pilot Watikwan to fly a rescue mission in his helicopter. No, the illustrations weren’t magically professional, but they were honest; they were fresh. They were perfect. They were his. It’s not just pictures either; he’s memorized the text he dictated; he’s learned a lot of words. We stow them in a folder before I walk him back across the compound on my way to Sister’s office. When I leave him at the hospital reluctantly prepared to do his chores, he’s already planning pages for tomorrow and asking if we have to wait till then to write another page.

  “It’s a good thing to give a project like this a little rest. That’s the way real artists work.”

  “Can I come right after breakfast? This is going to be the best book ever.”

  “You might be right, Watikwan. Don’t give Cheepash a hard time about the potatoes.”

  “What if the ice block crashes and Mickey has to swim?”

  “Tomorrow, Watikwan. Right after breakfast.”

  And then I turn toward the school and turn my mind toward Suzanne. In only minutes I’m sitting in Sister’s office while she calls the operator and establishes a connection through Toronto. This time she leaves the room. I think she’s given up on happy endings. For better or for worse I’m her teacher to finish out the year, and that might go down easier the less she knows about our situation. So I find myself alone with the afternoon sun throwing snowflake shadows on the desk, shadows from the paper cut-outs taped against her office window, rubbish from a season now expired—a time so different from this hot spring day that it defies imagination.

  “Hello? Suzanne? Over.”

  “Suzanne is here, but I have a few things to say to you first, David. Over.” It’s her mother.

  “Yes, Mrs. Robinson. Hello. Over.”

  “David. Have you any idea what it means to be pregnant? Do know anything about what she’s going through, anything at all? Over.”

  “No, ma’am. I have to say I don’t know much about it from personal experience especially. Over.”

  “Don’t you get smart with me, young man. Your baby— Did you hear me? Your baby is turning somersaults now. Making hiccups. Your wife— Did you hear me? Your wife needs you here. If you...” There is a muffled silence. Then I hear Suzanne voice say, “Over.”

  “Is the baby, okay? How is the baby? Over.”

  “Yes, David. Everything’s normal. Somersaults and hiccups are normal, the doctor says. Both the baby and I are fine. I’m sorry about that. Mum is pretty upset about this whole separation. She told me she just wanted to ask you about the possibility you might be having a mid-life crisis or something like that. I shouldn’t have let her talk. Over.”

  “Hello, Suzanne.” Only now do I realize I haven’t prepared the speech or explanation or confession. Not only are the things I have to say totally impossible to articulate, but I have no idea what exactly they should be about. I know they are unthinkable. I know, bubbling through the static, it’s Suzanne I’m talking to, my friend, my partner, my wife. Of course I know she’s pregnant with our child. I can’t say the things I think I ought to say, not on this radio, not today. It isn’t fair to her. Instead, I say, “So do you think I’m having a mid-life crisis? Over.”

  "I have no idea what’s going on with you. It sounds like it’s some kind of crisis to me. I suppose I should be glad that you’re getting along with my students and that you’re helping the parents that were so mean to me. It’s just strange, okay. Over.”

  “I can see that, I guess. You had a hard time. It just doesn’t feel so strange to me anymore. Things have happened so fast here: the flood and evacuation and everything. It was a crisis for sure. You know what, Suzanne? I think the school is one big crisis too. There’s no way these kids are treated fairly. If you were only here right now, I know you’d see it that way. I know you’d want to fix it. Over.”

  “I’m not there. Thank God I’m not. I really don’t understand what’s going on with you, David. I don’t want to fight with you about Orkney Post either. Is your holiday finished now? Are you painting? Over.”

  “Another week before classes start. I’ve been too busy with the flood to paint much, but I hope to get out soon. I’ve been doing some tutoring—Albert from your class. Rebuilding the village has started. A lot is changing here very fast. At least everyone is safe now. Things are getting organized again. Suzanne? There are so many things I’ve experienced that are totally new to me; I’ve learned so much in such a short time. I wish I could explain it all. Over.”

  “I wish you could too, but I’m not sure I could understand it even if you could put it into words. Albert was such a pain in the ass. Why did you call me? Over.”

  I close my eyes tight. I promise myself I will set this right someday, someday soon. “I just wanted to know how you and the baby are? I really, really hate having to talk on this radio. Suzanne, I am going to finish out the school year. It’s something I need to do. I can’t walk away from these people at a time when they have lost everything, especially not after the last week. I know that much. I know you want me there, but the money will help out. You have good medical care now and good support from your parents. We have everything, Suz. These people have nothing. I’ll be here until the end of June. Then I’ll come to Pembroke. I will. I promise I will. And we can talk then without the whole coast listening in. Without saying ‘over’ all the time. That’s all I have to say. Over.” I tell myself I was honest—except for everything I left out.

  “I get it. I love you, David. Over.” I can tell she’s crying. Mouse, I know the things I said are not the things she deserved to hear. I know
she had a right to hear it all right then. Just like you have the right to be angry with me, Mouse. I wouldn’t blame you if you stopped here. I tried. Honestly, I did. I won’t blame it on the radio or her mother’s fury. The things I left unsaid were obviously huge, but I don’t understand those things yet and saying the wrong thing isn’t right either. This is tearing me apart. I have to get my act together, don’t I? Please, be patient, Mouse. The end is getting closer.

  “Thank you, Suzanne. I miss you too. Over and out.”

  “Over and out.”

  When I release the button I slump into the chair as if I weigh an extra hundred pounds. I have to will my fingers to place the mike onto its cradle without dropping it. Five weeks remain until the end of school. It feels like only five minutes. I’m definitely not ready yet to leave this place. I don’t know how to say goodbye to Rosemary and Watikwan, to Anice and Cheepash and Thomas, to my class, even to the faces that don’t yet have names: eyes that rarely meet mine but pierce into me when they do. Everything has happened so fast. Everything is different now. How it happened, how it turned my life around abruptly as I mopped the floors and washed dishes, I have no clear idea. I didn’t wish it. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t see it coming. It’s like I sat and watched the world transform around me. That wall of ice, that incredible force of nature rolled right over me and left me sitting here in Sister’s snowflake shadows, dazed. Now it’s hit me. Now I understand. I’ll have to face Suzanne in five short weeks and look her in the eye and tell her what I’ve done. And yet I know I can’t. What I really feel right now is tired.

  I check the clock on Sister’s wall: 4:10. Rosemary’s shift ends in minutes. I straighten my shoulders and turn off the flurry of words going through my brain. When my hand touches the doorknob, I can feel a hand on the other side.

  “Thank you, Sister. I appreciate the use of your office and your phone.”

  “You had the fruitful conversation with your wife, no?”

  “I guess so. I hope so.”

  “You should use our radio more often, M. Taylor. You only have to ask.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  I could go home and sleep. Perhaps I should do that, but I head toward the hospital instead. There is a half moon suspended above the spruce trees to the east on the other side of the runway—a balloon a toddler might have let slip through her fingers into the afternoon sky, a fleck of down riding a breeze across the ultramarine horizon. Time is a crazy idea, Mouse. Another toddler stands in my doorway watching her father hunt down the row of typewriter keys before he pecks another letter, before he pushes the carriage lever one more time. We both stare into the past and the future at the same time; we both try not to get too far ahead of ourselves or too far behind; we both try not to let the words spoil the moment. I take a step. I type another letter; I take another step. Then I see her. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. What brings you over here? Did my brother wear you out?” Rosemary’s voice is cheerful as she comes down from hospital porch, her nursing shoes ringing against the metal grate of the stairs.

  “I thought you’d be curious.”

  “The call. How did it go?”

  “I thought I’d walk you to the Residence. I guess it went okay. Her mother couldn’t resist a chance to rake me over the coals. But Suzanne... I don’t know. I guess it went okay. Maybe not exactly what I wanted.”

  “What did you tell her? Or if you’d rather not say...”

  “I guess that’s why I was coming over here to meet you. I need to be honest with you. It’s hard, but I think I need to talk.”

  “Just so you know, it isn’t necessary. I’d understand if you wanted to keep it between you and her.”

  “No. It feels weird, but you deserve to know.”

  “I suppose it’s weird for me too. A big part of me doesn’t want to know anything at all about her or about the two of you.”

  Right now I wish there were a park bench or a set of swings in a playground where we could stop and sit and stare at the moon while the words magically come into my mind. There isn’t. There isn’t time to walk down the winter road to our lake or crawl into my bed where I could hold her tightly and whisper what I need to say into her ear. What I know for sure is: if I don’t say it now, I won’t say it at all. Being a coward twice within half an hour is just too awful, even for me. “Well, I need to say it. It isn’t what I wanted to tell her or what I should have said. I told her I was staying here to finish the year. I told her I would come there after school ended to talk to her in person. I tried to tell her I’ve changed; I’m a different person; I’m looking at everything differently now. But I just couldn’t explain anything more to her on the radio, Rosemary—not about us. I don’t how I could put that into words anyway. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve complicated things a lot, haven’t I? I’ve messed it up pretty bad. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “No. Don’t blame yourself. I wanted this. Is there something, some word in Cree that means more complicated than complicated? I don’t think I understand very much about what’s going on other than I’m happy—right now. I’m happy standing here next to you. I can’t help it.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay, David?”

  “I’m good, I think. I’m worried about you, the position I’ve put you in? I want you to be able to ask me whatever is on your mind. Suzanne is your business now. I want you to be happy more than anything.”

  “David. If I thought you could answer it, I suppose I’d want to ask you what you are going to say to her when you see her this summer. But, what I really want is for us to not think about it at all. It’s too hard. I hate being your problem.”

  “I know. It’s not you though. I messed things up for myself. But all I worry about is how this is being unfair to you.” I watch her try to smile but she says nothing. “Are you coming over later? Some company would be nice.”

  “I was going to take a shower and get some sleep tonight. You’ve been keeping me up late.”

  “I have a shower.”

  She laughs. “So you do. Maybe we’ll just see about that.”

  .

  Some sage advice, Mouse: if you ever face some tough decision, try moving to the middle of a natural disaster; it isn’t going to solve your problem, but it’s a guaranteed distraction.

  Two days pass, and I have no idea what I did compared all the work done near me. It’s early Wednesday morning. Already planes and helicopters frantically dump or load their bellies-full of building supplies on the apron of the airstrip. Men labour under bales of insulation. Men check the nets and keep the stacks of lumber straight. Engines idle, impatient for another trip to Timmins or the village. Another DC-3 roars down the runway, this one bringing back a load of families from their billets in the south.

  I barely notice it amidst the clamour—just another racket in the bedlam. Sitting on my front porch steps while waiting for Watikwan, I glance up from the sketchbook where I practice a likeness of Mickey Mouse chopping down a tree in the middle of a forest. Through a mist of dust I see Rosemary in her white uniform running across the road from the hospital toward the terminal. I assume her parents and her brothers and sisters have arrived, and it isn’t long before I watch them all troop over to the school with their boxes and their luggage, which they leave on the school steps before proceeding inside. No doubt they are there to see Cheepash and check on their son. I have feared this moment. I have no choice, really, but to go see them. Once they are inside I put down my pencil and head over for the confrontation I’ve been dreading.

  Rosemary said they’d understand I wasn’t negligent, but that’s hard to believe. Surely they’ll find some fault in my behaviour—if not regarding my treatment of their son, then certainly of their daughter—depending on how much Cheepash tells them. Rosemary has been my Sacagawea since that day last March she told me her brother’s nickname. I didn’t ask her; I had no idea even what the questions were. I didn’t ask for help in general. I didn�
�t volunteer to scramble down onto the ice for Thomas the day he crossed over with a patient. She sent me. She’s not only been my teacher and my lover, but a friend I trust completely. So without much hesitation, even though I’m quaking in my sneakers, I follow her command. I know it’s right to meet them face-to-face and take whatever criticism they may feel that I deserve. I also know without her quiet reassurance, I’d be looking for a place to hide right now.

  When I arrive, the apartment door stands open, and Cheepash with the others crowds around the boy lying on a couch supervising signings on his cast. They all talk at once. Everyone speaks Cree, and hearty laughter punctuates each sentence until the moment I walk in the room. Then the language turns to English; the laughter takes a break.

  “It is good to be back. Good that we can start work rebuilding. Thank you.” Winyam extends a hand to me and doesn’t bother with translation.

  “Welcome back,” I say. “You must be glad to be home. I am so very sorry about Watikwan. I thought... Well it doesn’t really matter what I thought, does it?” I bite my lip and wait my fate.

  “He’s in more danger from eating my cookies than he ever was going for that hike on the ice. He’ll be so fat they won’t be able to get the cast off.” Cheepash leads the others in laughter at his own joke. But Watikwan looks like he’s about to cry.

  “I will not eat your rotten cookies anymore. I want this off right now. It itches very bad.”

  There’s more laughter.

  Winyam speaks in Cree to Rosemary who translates, “They want you to know they don’t blame you in any way for the accident. They want to thank you for teaching Watikwan and for going out on the ice to find him.”

  Then Winyam adds, “Mikwech.”

  Now Watikwan waves the sheaf of drawing paper at them. “Look! My new book! I made it myself. I can read it all by myself.” I get a glimpse of Mickey Mouse struggling with two pails of water. “Me, I am a very good reader now.”

  Rosemary ruffles his hair and he threatens her with his crutch.

  Everyone says, “Nyaa” almost in unison and Watikwan blushes.

  Rosemary runs her fingers through his hair again and he pulls his head away. “Don’t mess with me, Wapikoshish.”

  “Awas,” is her response followed by yet more laughter. “I’m not hurting you. Yet. If you can’t be nice, maybe I could get them to put a cast on your head.”

  “Stop teasing me!”

  Winyam speaks and Rosemary translates, “They will go soon.”

  “How will you get across? You should stay on this side.” It’s still hard for me to imagine children out on that ice.

  “There is a tent for us over there now. We will walk,” says Winyam through Rosemary. “In a few days, maybe there will be a road.”

  “A road? How can that be?” It seems impossible.

  Rosemary has to translate again. “They will be dynamiting the ice and using an end-loader to try to push through a path starting on the village side. They’ll build another wooden bridge when they get to the creek if the water isn’t too high. It will take awhile. It’s a big project. It’s hard to say when it’ll be finished; as always, it depends on the ice and the water level. Before too long they’ll be using trucks to cross, and then it will be safer for the children come to school next week. That’s the plan, anyway. We’ll see what happens.”

  Not exactly a miracle, I think. This likely wasn’t something Sr. Theresa engineered, but I’m sure she’ll be happy to take the credit for it. That doesn’t matter. I’m relieved my students will have a less perilous journey and that puts me in an optimistic mood. I tell Watikwan, “One book is not enough. We will keep making them, okay?” I imagine a whole library of picture books, authored by Watikwan Metatawabin. “Maybe if we all work together, the whole class can make books.”

  His younger sister starts shouting, “I want a book about me!”

  This will incite negotiations, but it’s a certainty they will be accompanied by more laughter.

  Before they leave I offer to help them carry their belonging across the ice. I’m relieved when Cheepash intervenes by rolling his eyes at me and telling me he will make the trip. Then the language switches back to Cree. I head to my house to make some lunch, feeling as if the Roberts Gallery in Toronto has just called and asked if they could arrange a one-man exhibition of my paintings. My chest is puffed out like it might burst.

  By lunchtime I hear an occasional boom reverberate off the river. Muted. The explosions are not loud enough, however, to obscure the knocking on my door, a sound I haven’t heard for more than a week. I’m both surprised and disappointed at the visitor, emotions I don’t disguise very well in my greeting. “Sundara? How did you get back? I thought the teachers weren’t coming in until Thursday or Friday. You must have been pretty anxious to get here.”

  “Funny, funny, David Robinson. Never anxious to come here, I am. Borrow three tea bags, may I, please, if you would be so good, sir? Even more lazy than usual about delivering my luggage, they are being today. I’ll make a big complaint about that Thomas if he doesn’t get here soon.”

  “Thomas is pretty busy, Sundara. He’s probably on the other side. There’s a lot of work going on around here, a lot of it over in the village now.”

  “Always some excuse, there is for him not to do his job. All of my food, it is in my bags at that crummy shed. Anyone could steal it.”

  “I could make you a sandwich if you’d like. So why did you come back so early then? In fact, how did you come back? Today is Wednesday. The first sched is tomorrow.”

  “Hush, hush, David. On the CBC, I hear about this reverse evacuation. A free plane from Sudbury, I knew there’d be. Renting a car, I was and driving there. Maybe I can show them my government card and get on, I’m thinking. But Billy Metat and his family waiting in the lounge, I spot them. So I’m telling the nice lady his uncle, I am. No problem. Right on the charter with everyone else, I go. So what? I am more Indian than they are. Right? The sandwich, what sort would that be, David?”

  I open the fridge. “I’ve got some canned ham.”

  “No, no. No ham, please.”

  “How about a nice peanut butter and jam then?”

  “Just the tea bags, thank you very much.”

  When Sundara has finally left I contemplate a walk over to the riverbank. I would like to watch them excavating and blasting or whatever it is they are doing to reconnect our two worlds, whatever it is they are doing to speed the trip back to normalcy. I need to keep myself busy, to keep my mind occupied, to avoid worrying about Suzanne. Pembroke has become as alien to me as Orkney Post became to her. I can’t imagine a kind of dynamite strong enough to connect my world back to hers. The closer I get to the village now—the closer it gets to me—the farther I feel from southern Ontario. Before I head to the riverbank, I walk to the spare bedroom and look for paper and colours hoping to capture ice and mud in action.

  My mind sorts through possible media, possible hues as my jeans brush against the desk and I reach down thinking Diego wants a scratch behind his ear. I remember the feel of him—like the pain in a phantom limb. Only this is not a physical pain but a memory as soft as velvet and alive with static electricity—real in spite of the distance. One more awful thing I have to tell Suzanne.

  When I finally get my stuff together and pack it down the road and climb the ice bank, another phantom greets me. As it turns out, our dynamite is something of a dud. The mushroom clouds and ice chip geysers I expected just aren’t there; the only signs of blasting are occasional quiet thuds from deep inside the ice pack. It doesn’t take me long to figure out muffled explosions would be just as entertaining from the comfort of the Lazy-boy. I wind up spending the entire afternoon looking at an empty canvas with only background blasting keeping me awake. Suz would call the intervals a fartlek—a run composed of random lengths and paces. With detonations spaced from ten to sixty minutes apart, I keep thinking maybe they are finished until I hear another blast. It finally en
ds near dusk. When Rosemary walks through my door grinning broadly, I’m busy pondering which is less exciting: the absence of the sound waves or the absence of any paint on my canvas.

  “Hey there. Come for another shower, have you?”

  “Just had a shower. Do you think I need another one?”

  “Person can’t have enough showers, I’d say. There should be lots of hot water. What’s the big smile about?”

  She shrugs.

  “It must be nice to have your parents back. I hope it was okay I crashed the reunion. It sounds like they’re always having fun. That’s pretty cool considering the flood and damage and all.”

  “I’m glad you came over to help welcome them home.”

  “I like them. It was good to meet them.”

  “Well you haven’t met them all, but we do okay. I’m sure they like you too. Watikwan thinks you’re pretty hot stuff—now that he’s an author.” She winks at me. “Seriously, he’s never been anywhere close to this excited about school before—unless he scored a goal at recess or killed a snowbird on the way home.”

  “The new book makes a big difference, doesn’t it? I think your parents liked that too. I wish I’d thought of it sooner. It’s a huge kick watching him draw and get excited about reading. I never realized teaching could be such a trip. It’s cool when kids and parents are actually smiling.”

  “They are teasing me, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “My family.”

  “About?”

  “About you of course.”

  “What about me?”

  “Don’t be so dense, David. They’re teasing me about us.”

  “How would they know anything about us? I don’t even know what we know about us.” Instantly I feel the need to check my heart rate and make sure that I’m still breathing. My cheeks feel warm. My blood pressure must be trending upward quickly. Sweaty palms. Trembling knees. I’ve forgotten what I’m doing; I need to find a place to sit. Rosemary smiles patiently—as if there isn’t cause for panic. “Well, what? How much do they know? Do they know about Suzanne? Of course they do. She was Watikwan’s teacher. Oh, crap. We are so toast. Rosemary? You’re smiling? Are you in shock?” The teakettle I left in the sink overflows and Rosemary rescues it.

  “Try to calm down, David. You look very pale.” She laughs. “Of course they know. Why wouldn’t they? I’m okay. I think you’re the one about to have a stroke?”

  “Who told them? Cheepash. It has to be him.” It would take compelling evidence or a mammoth lie to counter anything he’s said.

  “David, I told them.”

  “What?” She must be kidding. I don't think I fully appreciate her sense of humour yet. “Don’t joke. This is serious.”

  “Yes, I talked to them. They’re my family.”

  “Well... You told them what? You told them we’re friends, right? That we worked together in the kitchen.”

  “David! Grow up. I told them the truth, of course.”

  “That’s true though: we’re friends.”

  “David, calm down. We’re more than friends—I hope. I told them sometimes I might spend the night here. That way, they could find me if they need me. I’m their daughter.”

  “And they were okay with that.” It occurs to me these people have shotguns and they how to use them.

  “David, they know you’re a good man. They know I’m happy. That’s all that matters to them.”

  “And what about the future? What about Suzanne? Are they asking about that?”

  “Nobody knows the future. When the future stops being the future, they think, I think, we will do our best to deal with it. That might be too simplistic for you, but it’s the truth for me and for them.”

  “I need a second for this to soak in. I don’t know any parents like that, Rosemary. I mean, sure, that’s very cool of them.”

  “Yes, I guess from your perspective they are very cool people. Here they’re just kind of—people. They accept other people’s right to have their own feelings and do what they want to do and live with the consequences.”

  I clear my throat and cross my fingers, making a silent prayer there is some way I can handle our consequences. “They said that: if you’re happy, they’re happy? Tomorrow can just take care of itself? They sound like the artist/ hippies I knew in Toronto, not real parents. What if...”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  “So you don’t worry too much about ‘what if.’ To help you keep your mind focused right here and right now.”

  Eventually my vital signs return to normal and I’m able to smile again. I smile until my lips become too busy with her lips, until our clothing becomes too cumbersome and restrictive, until our hunger becomes too acute to ignore. Then I smile inside my head until it’s time to walk her back to the Nurses’ Residence at midnight, until it’s time to say goodnight. And then, all by myself, I smile at the moon peeking at me over the roof of the school.

  .

  The next morning I assign myself the job of staying busy. It’s Thursday, 26 May 1977. My next-to-last month here in Orkney Post is disappearing far too quickly. Next week when school begins again, I’ll have fifteen kids to entertain and Sister to contend with. This afternoon I’ll start another homemade book with Watikwan. This morning, with Rosemary at work and her brother helping Cheepash, I need jobs to keep my mind engaged—to keep me focused on the present. The last things I need are thoughts of travelling to Pembroke or talking to Suzanne. I do the dishes and a load of laundry. If I had the key, I’d check with Sister to see if there were beds or tables to be packed away again, chairs carried back to classrooms, or floors to mop one final time. Likely that will fall to Thomas now. I could ask the crew working at the airport if I could lend a hand, but that might garner laughter. Or worse, they might accept, and then I’d have to match their pace. I decide to take a walk down to the bank and try to sketch some ice again; perhaps I'll get a glimpse of the new road under construction.

  I meet Cheepash by the hospital and stop to chat. “Smoke break?”

  He smiles and offers me one, which I respectfully decline. “Winyam and the others, they’re all set up now over there. The trail is easier than the last time you tried to cross.” He doesn’t laugh, something I appreciate.

  “How is Watikwan this morning?”

  “Lazy. And hungry all the time.” We both laugh then. “Looks like you’re off to make a picture. You’re not learning to read too, are you?”

  I grin. “I’m learning all the time. But I’m not planning to add any words on this one. How’s the road coming?”

  “No idea. I’m not allowed to feed the workers. Can’t even talk to them.”

  We both smile at that.

  He takes a final drag and tosses the cigarette. We nod and he goes back to work. I continue to the bank and climb the ice pile and open up the sketchbook. There’s not a lot more drama here than yesterday, but my expectations are much lower. I see the tops of more new tents behind the ice ridge on the other side. There are small plumes of smoke from camp stoves. I hear the distant hammer taps and power-saw whines of people working on the housing situation. From up here the ice jam hasn’t changed that much; its depth looks like it’s dropped very little from what we saw a week ago up close. But by and large this is still an audio experience: the shouted Cree and laughter of the workmen, exploding dynamite, the growl of chain saws and high-pitched clink of axes chipping ice, the quiet crumble of frozen walls and cliffs, and from the other bank, the mournful groan of a solitary end-loader moving heavy blocks. I imagine once it’s finished, it’ll be like walking down a narrow canyon, perhaps in places more like tunnels, steep sides of ice with twists and turns around the toughest obstacles. Eventually, they say, they'll widen it to single-lane for trucks or cars, and, as the ice rots in the coming weeks, it will finally be straightened and graded and gravelled to become the once familiar road of my short autumn and winter here. All of this is, of course, new t
o me, but now it’s logical. When the crews from both sides finally meet, the road will be much safer.

  Shortly before lunch I pack it in and head back home. I didn’t get much down on paper, but maybe I’ll be inspired to start a serious painting before Watikwan shows up to read and draw. Before I walk a dozen steps, I notice there’s a change in the music from the river and I stop. There’s a lull in the explosions. Between the hum of planes and helicopters from the airstrip, a new sound emerges from the creek—one more delicate. I can hear the quiet swoosh of handsaws and the hammering of nails carried up on a cool north breeze. At first it’s puzzling, but then I get it. Probably the workers have reached the creek and are now cobbling together a temporary bridge. The former span, now toothpicks somewhere out on James Bay, was just a flat pallet of two-by-sixes less than ten yards long, rickety but strong enough to bear a pickup full of kids or groceries. No handrails. No need of those for a creek that couldn’t have been more than a foot deep in fall or winter. I’m curious to see the bridge’s final form after witnessing our little “creek” become a bully and a thief.

  When I get home I fix my lunch and take it out on the porch where I enjoy the sun—if not the dust. Spring fever? I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t believe I had the vaccination. The thought of lesson plans and painting projects have lost their appeal after days of physical labour and being with friends. I need to move. I need to talk. The air is just too sweet; the sun is just too warm. I close my eyes and when I open them...

  I’m saved. Watikwan strides across the gravel compound on his crutches. Cheepash must be busy or Thomas’ truck must be in use; usually he gets a ride. The gravel is loose but the boy has caught on quickly to the touch and rhythm of his supports. His pace is brisk. He makes it look easy. I’m probably wrong to feel so proud of something I had no part in teaching him; no longer his guardian, I still feel pride in everything he does. As he gets closer, coming down the row of teacher houses, he has to detour around a pile of boxes and bags sitting outside of Singh’s. I know my neighbour won’t be happy seeing that—won’t easily accept the unpaid job of carrying his own belongings up the stairs, across his porch all by himself.

  “Hey there, Dave! Are you ready to work? I have my idea. Mickey Mouse will be going in the bush to cut firewood and there will be a big explosion that breaks his ski-doo.”

  “An explosion, eh? That should be interesting. I guess we know where that idea came from. Hey! Slow down. Deadly steps here.” He flies up my front steps like they’re a ramp. “You’re getting too good with those. I guess I won’t be carrying you into the school on Monday, unless you slip and break your other leg today.”

  “We could race. But you have to use crutches too.”

  “I think you should slow down. We’ll race after they take your cast off. Come in. You can get settled on the couch; I’ll get out the paper. Drawing should be less dangerous than racing anyway.”

  “I think you are afraid to race. Don’t worry. There must be something you are good at. Maybe that would make a good book: Mickey and Watikwan have a race across the muskeg.”

  We are hard at work on the living room coffee table when a pounding on my back door startles us. I know it’s Sundara even before I get up to tell him the door is unlocked. He is livid. He doesn’t let me speak; he doesn’t say hello or ask permission to come in. He pushes past me into the kitchen.

  “Did you see? What that Thomas did, have you seen it? Pay dearly for that laziness, he will. Thinks he can treat a teacher like one of the savages? He’ll think twice before he pulls this kind of stunt again; I guarantee it.”

  “Just try to calm down. I know Thomas is really busy right now.”

  “Just lazy, he is. Excuses, there can be none for this. An official complaint to Indian Affairs will be made. And long overdue, it is. That man. Always a sour face, he has. His little game, it will cost him his job this time, David. Simple as that. He has pushed too far.”

  “Why don’t you come in and sit down and cool off for a minute? This isn’t such a big problem really.”

  He stands in my kitchen. “The principle of the thing, it is important. You let them get away...” He peers over my shoulder. “In your house, who is this, Robinson?”

  “Oh we’re just doing a little project.”

  "In your house? You don’t worry about the lice? Who is that one? Looks familiar, he does.”

  “Sundara!”

  “Albert? Fucking Albert Metat? A thief, this boy is. He is the most...”

  I reach out and place my index finger directly on his lips. “That’s all. Enough. He is my guest. Calm down. You watch your language in my house. If you can’t, you have to leave.”

  "Mr. David. What has got into you? This little troublemaker, in my class last year, he was. My headache for one long, entire year, he was. You are threatening to throw me out so you can entertain this little shit. Little nit, what are you doing in the teacher houses? You have no right!”

  “That’s it, Mr. Singh. You’re leaving. We can talk about this after you’ve cooled off. Go. While we’re at it, I strongly advise you to cut Thomas some slack too.”

  “So now this Thomas, you are having him as another bushnigger friend, mister. What gives with you? A cabin fever, you are having, I think.”

  “Out! Now!” I back him to the door. There might be the odour of alcohol on his breath, but I know Mr. Singh well enough to know he doesn’t need an excuse for his racism or his rudeness. “You stay away from here. Don’t come back until you are ready to apologize to both Watikwan and me.”

  “Wata-who?”

  “Just go. And don’t come back.”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ,” he mutters on his way down the back stairs. I am ashamed I have humoured him or ignored his comments for the past nine months in the interest of peace. I have let him get away with too much.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Watikwan. He’s...”

  “It’s okay. Dave. He is always angry. My father says, ‘Just stay out of his way.’ He is mean to everyone. Always he sends me to the office last year but I’m not afraid of him.”

  I don’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry. This isn’t fair to you. He had no right to say those things.” Watikwan just looks at me. There is neither anger nor expectation on his face. When my eyes drop to the table and come to rest on his often-wounded hands, a lump forms in my throat and I can’t bring myself to say anything else. A part of me wants to make a speech about protecting him from abuse, protecting him from things that are not within my power to promise. And when I realize that, I want to make an apology for being complicit, for being silent, for being Canadian and white. And then I want to reassure him that he is not just a good kid but a great kid, a smart kid, absolutely neither a savage nor a criminal. And then I think his parents and his sister have already told him these things and my words are simply too difficult, too embarrassing to say aloud. I take a deep breath and change the subject. “Watikwan. You’re right. We have more important things to think about. We should get started on the new book. Are you up for that?”

  He nods. I spread a paper with a half-drawn Mickey Mouse in front of him. We say nothing for a while. The ticking of the wall clock fills the room. Finally he speaks without looking up from his drawing.

  “Where is your chainsaw, Dave? I could draw if better if I had a quick look.”

  “I don’t have one, Watikwan. I’ve never used one either. They look kind of dangerous to me.”

  “Wow. You need to get one. It makes the work go faster. Easier too. When I use my father’s chainsaw, it goes a lot faster. It looks like this.” And he begins to draw from memory.

  I watch. Now and then I make a comment, praise a line or suggest another tree or shadow. It isn’t long before a glance out my picture window reveals Sr. Theresa headed toward the school with a bundle that looks a lot like mail cradled in one arm. It’s a long shot, the prospect of a letter, but even junk is sometimes worth the effort. Mail is special here, comin
g as it does just twice a week and only with cooperation from the weather and the plane. Mail is our reminder, our physical link with “the south.” Watikwan is totally absorbed in drawing mice. “Would you be cool here for a minute while go check with Sister?”

  He looks at me like he’s the artist and I’m just here for his supplies and compliments—superfluous again. I assume that that’s a “yes” and charge outdoors and try to catch her before the school door clicks and locks me out. “Sister! Wait!” Then thinking better of it I wheeze a mournful, “Please!”

  That does the trick. She pauses on the bottom step and shuffles through her stack of envelopes. “Ah! You must be having the lucky day, monsieur. The mail she is not something dat happens very often. Just one. I hope dat is efficient.”

  I reach her, out of breath, and take the proffered letter. “Thank you, Sister.” I forget for just a moment that we are unofficially at war and smile my gratitude.

  Postmark: Toronto. I rip it open on the stoop before I walk back in my living room and find an armchair where I devour it slowly, savouring the accent—three sheets of airmail blue from Juan. He writes about his latest project: sandcast candles. They’ve taken over his life, his time, and all his pogey. A “happening” is in the works. The text is full of temperatures and times, and now he’s using centimetres, which still are Greek to me, in his most recent experiments to “perfect” the process. “Perfect,” I know so well, means trying to shape matter into image rather than the other way around. It might sound boring, Mouse, but to me it isn’t—well, maybe all the numbers. But I miss the sound of Juan—his excitement, his devotion, his wonder at the world. I close my eyes and see Cervesa wagging his tail as Juan pulls the candles from their pails of sand. I nearly forget I have a job to; I’m supposed to be playing tutor instead of artist this afternoon.

  “What time is it, Dave?”

  I check the dining room clock. How did it get to be so late? “It’s almost four. How is the book coming?”

  “I think I’m finished for today. Uncle said to come back at three. I should go.”

  “You’d better hurry. Can I take a quick peek to see what you’ve done?”

  “It’s very good, Dave. We are ready to put the words in now. We’ll do that tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Tomorrow for sure. I’ll help you get over to the hospital.”

  “Are you serious? Dave, you are not very fast even walking.” He laughs. “Maybe tomorrow we could have that race. You were running like a girl to get your letter.”

  I clear my throat trying to think of some way to restore my dignity. “Tomorrow we’ll write your words together. Don’t go too fast on that gravel, okay? You can tell Cheepash your teacher forgot to look at the clock.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, Watikwan.” After I watch him down the stairs, I close the front door and realize how hungry I’ve become. I head to the kitchen to start supper, thinking it’s surprising how I devoured Juan’s letter—just when I’m considering I might be content to live right here in Orkney Post forever. While I set a pot to boil and rummage for a box of mac and cheese, I let my thoughts go where they shouldn’t: things and people from the past I might or mightn’t miss and reasons why I love the life I’m living now. Suzanne? I’m scared to put her on the list. Everything about her makes me feel inadequate and shamed while Watikwan, even if it’s only partly true, paints me as being useful. It isn’t what I want to think about; decision day is weeks from now. I wonder how she does it, how Rosemary can close her mind to possibilities and plans, how she can keep her focus just on now. Now is supper and before I know it, I’ve polished off my bowl of macaroni.

  I’m stacking dirty dishes in the kitchen sink when I hear rubber boots pound up my back steps and cross my porch. No cheery salutation, just a desperate, “David, come. Hurry!” from Rosemary before she turns around and disappears back the way she came.

  I grab a jacket from the hook beside the door, step into my wellingtons, and I’m on her trail in seconds. “What’s up?” I have to shout to make her hear; she leads by a dozen-steps already, a flat out pace I’d never match for more than seconds. If we are racing, this has to be a short, short dash. “Hey? Where’s the fire?”

  She doesn’t turn, but lets the sound drift back to me. “Watikwan.” She mashes every syllable inside her heavy breathing.

  “Slow down.” There’s nothing I can see that we could reach at this speed; I doubt that she can make it another twenty yards. “Is he hurt?’ I ease into a brisk jog and catch her at the school, both of us bent double, fighting for air.

  “Linda...”

  “Just catch your breath.”

  “She saw him. New path. Heading across. The village. Going over. Dynamite.”

  “Dynamite? He’s not trying out the new road? Why would he do that? How long ago was this?”

  “Don’t know. Linda. Maybe less than half-an-hour.”

  “He could be over there by now. He can fly on those crutches.”

  “If he made it, David. It’s not finished. They’re still blasting. He could still be out there. Or the bridge? It isn’t ready.”

  “Rosemary. Don’t even think like that, okay. Well get him. I promise.” Shit. I didn’t realize; it didn’t register the blasting has started up again. Why would he go over? I can’t believe he didn’t learn his lesson from his injury last week. How could he do this again? But now is not the time to chew him out. The image of his body out there on the ice erases any reprimands for now. We run again as fast as our lungs will let us in spite of my side stitch. But as we pass the hospital, I grab her arm and slow her to a stop. “Wait here,” I tell her. “We need to be smart about this. I’ll find Thomas. Get him to stop the blasting. He must have a radio—a walkie-talkie or something. You wait right here in case he’s on the road.” She tries to pull away from me. “This’ll be faster, Rosemary. If they’re still blasting it’ll be too risky. The first rule in an emergency is: don’t become a casualty yourself.” I remember that from Boy Scouts. I can feel her arm relax. “Wait for me right here. Maybe Watikwan has turned around and is coming back on his own. You can see the road both ways from here. It’ll just take me a minute. Okay?”

  I look her in the eye and wait for her to nod. Then I turn and bound up the stairs and into the hospital. Maybe Cheepash knows his whereabouts. Hélène meets me in the doorway. “Slow down, M. Taylor. Dis is de hospital; she is not a racing track.”

  “I have to find Thomas right away. Have you seen him?”

  “No. And dat’s fine wit me; he’s always out somewhere. Who knows whether he’s working here or de school or for dem other guys?”

  “Can you use your radio to contact the men doing the blasting?”

  “Dese men, dey have nothing to do with dis hospital anymore. I have no ways to contact them. You need to see dat Thomas for stuff about their stupid road.”

  “Where’s Cheepash?”

  “He’s de cook, no? Did you try de kitchen? I’m not de babysitter here.”

  I am already halfway down the hall calling his name. There’s no response, so it isn’t surprising when I swing open the kitchen door and see nothing but a stack of dirty dishes. I try the backdoor. Maybe he is having a smoke before cleaning up. Nothing. Then I spot Thomas’s truck out on the runway. Across the parking area and wide strip of weeds that separates the hospital from the airstrip, the rattletrap pickup slowly inches down the gravel. Probably he’s doing an inspection. There has been a lot of traffic on that runway this past week.

  I run again—wishing I’d accepted even one or two of Suzanne’s offers to coach me in the art of jogging. I wish she’d gone ahead and built some strength in my legs and some endurance in my heart. I begin to wobble before I even hit the weeds. Running in rubber boots is not the easiest or the fastest way to travel. I would yell out if I could breathe, but I tell my legs not to stop. I tell my feet not to complain. I tell my brain not to think. Just keep going. When I hit the runway, the surfa
ce is flatter. There are fewer dips and ruts and tangles and I find I can accelerate slightly. The gravel is hard against my feet. I wave my arms and finally he spots me and the truck brakes to a stop.

  When at last I close the distance, I grab onto the driver’s door, panting. He rolls the window down. All I can squeeze out is, “Watikwan.”

  “What about him? Catch your breath.”

  “On the road. Watikwan. Going over. He’s trying to go over. Blasting. You have to stop the blasting.”

  Thomas checks his wristwatch. “Get in.”

  I circle the truck and the door swings open for me. I climb up and slide onto the bench. Before my hand reaches the handle to pull it closed, he is kicking up gravel doing a three-point turn. “His sister is waiting for us at the hospital,” I pant.

  “What’s he doing on the road anyway? We put up a sign.”

  “Can’t you radio someone and make them stop?”

  “Radio’s busted.”

  He steps on the gas and looks at me sceptically. Then shifts his focus back to the runway.

  Seconds later we are back at the hospital. He doesn’t slow down.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble. Rosemary is not where I left her. There is no need to guess where she might be.

  Thomas reads my mind. “Where would you be if it was your brother?”

  I don’t have a brother. In the sense he’s accustomed to using the word, I’m not sure I even have a family, not the kind of family people have here. I don’t think Suzanne has that kind of family either. I’ve never met families like the ones here.

  We arrive at the bank, tires skidding up a film of dust as we stop at the point where the road ends in front of a narrow opening in the ice ridge. I see no one, either on the road or in the narrow passage that snakes downward following the slope of the bank. We push our creaking doors open simultaneously, and our feet are on the ground at almost the same instant we hear the explosion. It’s muffled—like a balloon popped under some pillows. No flying ice or earth marks its location. This one, like most of the others, has taken place somewhere deep in the ice pile—somewhere.

  Thomas shouts in Cree. “Peo! Peo! Kipichi!” More Cree. And silence. Finally there is a faint response in Cree—more words I don’t understand.

  Thomas points to the truck. “Stay here!”

  I press my lips together and force a smile that tells him I’m not about to follow orders as I fall in a few paces behind him on the canyon path. He ignores me. We don’t have time to argue. Common sense obviously would not have much weight in my decision making anyway; I guess he knows that.

  Cold. It’s as if we’ve stepped into the walk-in fridge at the hospital or trudged back in time to winter. The path lies in chilly, damp shadow quickly gnawing its way inside my nylon jacket and nipping my gloveless hands. The ground is frozen and slick. I struggle to keep up with Thomas as my eyes adjust to the dim light in the narrow corridor, its ice walls towering skyward, sometimes leaning inward and forming a roof above us that affords only brief glimpses of sky. In some places the dark cavern is barely wide enough for one person to slide through. Occasionally it widens enough to allow people to walk two or even three abreast. The ice walls look so formidable and mysterious that it’s hard to imagine a time when it will accommodate cars and trucks, when it will simply be “the road.” I am too anxious about Rosemary and Watikwan to worry for long about how safe from cave-ins or shifting ice blocks this “still under construction” trail might be.

  When we come to the temporary bridge, I can see just how much still needs to be done before anyone can safely cross. There is nothing here but two two-by-sixes side-by-side. Less than a foot wide and with no railing, for ten long yards, Watikwan would’ve had to manoeuvre sideways on crutches along wet, slippery lumber, a fast-moving icy river bubbling just inches beneath him. I tremble at the prospect of attempting it now—with two good legs and gripping rubber boots. The temperature of the water couldn’t be more than a degree or two above freezing. A person wearing a heavy cast wouldn’t have a chance. But he was amazing on his crutches this afternoon. I force myself to change the subject—him on crutches, her rushing to save her brother. Of course they made it. They had to make it.

  Just past the bridge there is a slight twist in the trail, enough of an angle so we can’t see what lies ahead until we get there. And when we do, a form lies sprawled on a wide wet spot of frozen mud. Rosemary lies on her back—her arms and legs flung out wide—making no movement that I can see.

  Thomas yells “Ota! Ota!” at the unseen workers as he runs to her. He puts his ear to her mouth. He looks at me and shakes his head. Her chest is not moving. I am too scared to move or speak. This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. The words that form in my head right then don’t come from the Boy Scout Handbook or a first aide lecture. Just: this really can’t be happening.

  Thomas tilts her head back. Forces her mouth open and sticks his fingers in to search for her tongue. Then he covers her mouth with his, pinches her nose shut and blows. He waits and blows again. He blows again and then pumps his palms into her chest rapidly. “Roll up your jacket,” he tells me. “Put it under her feet so they’re higher than her head.”

  I’m too scared to move at first, but he makes a face at me and I force myself follow his instructions. There is no movement, no sign she might be breathing, and I have never felt so empty or so frightened. Maybe he’s given me a job to do, just so I won’t faint or become hysterical and part of the problem instead of part of the solution.

  Two men in yellow earmuffs appear from the village-end of the canyon. Thomas nods but keeps repeating what I’m soon to learn is called CPR. The men speak Cree to me and I smile as if I know what they are saying. Finally, just as Thomas switches from mouth-to-mouth to chest compressions, the figure lying in the mud coughs, gags, and moans. And I am by her side in an instant.

  “What?” She struggles. Dazed.

  “Just stay still,” I say. Thomas is also talking to her but in Cree, probably saying the same thing I am.

  Thomas now translates what the other men have been saying. The trail ahead is wider. It’ll be easier as well as shorter to carry her to the village than back over the bridge and through the narrow passages behind us. I’m not sure if I have a say in the matter, but I’m in no position to agree or disagree about the decision. Rosemary tells us she can walk, but no one wants her to do that just in case there are internal injuries. She has been dead, or I thought she might be and we who remained alive are still in awe and cautious.

  What follows happens quickly. We use our jackets to fashion a kind of stretcher or something closer to a hammock and, over her protests, take her slowly up the path to her family’s tent where we find Watikwan sitting with one leg straight out and the other tucked under him on a bed of spruce boughs eating bannock. Thomas goes to use the CB radio, to get Hélène to send the helicopter once again. We know there will be no argument this time either. And even though I don’t understand what is being said, I know there will be many jokes from her family and from the people in the tent village about the Metatawabin family getting freebies on the metal dragonfly.

  While we wait, I talk to Watikwan and ask him why he would do such a foolish thing.

  “I was very mad. I had to see my mama and papa.”

  “What made you so mad that you would risk the explosions? You knew you shouldn’t go across. And the bridge was crazy dangerous on crutches. Even without crutches it’s tricky.”

  “I thought they were done for today. I didn’t hear them for a long time.”

  “There was a sign telling you not to go on the road.”

  "I thought they forgot to take it down. But I could read it, me. You should be proud of me.”

  “I am proud of you. And I’m relieved that you’re safe too. But what made you so mad you had to come over here?”

  “Nothing.”

  "Watikwan, you can tell me this. Everybody gets mad sometimes. You have to trust me if
we are going to work together to make books for the class. I trust you. I get mad sometimes. I know you wouldn’t get mad unless there was a good reason. Tell me.”

  The boy lowers his head and crumbles a small piece of bannock, letting flecks of crust sift into the boughs near my feet. “It was Mr. Singh. Don’t tell that to Sister. I don’t want her kind of trouble. He catches me on the road. He is missing some of his food, he says. He says I stole it. But I didn’t. I have all the food I want from my uncle and you. His food smells funny anyway. He tells me I had no business staying on the mission side. He says I belong in the village only. I can only come there for school or to go to the store. He calls me little nit again like he did all last year. I know I shouldn’t listen to him, but I did. When he’s crazy, sometimes he makes me crazy too. I needed to see papa.”

  If I tell him I’m sorry, which is what I want to do, it will sound like I need to apologize because I’m one of them, like Singh and the other teachers, but even if it’s true that that’s who I really am, I just can’t bring myself to say it now. If I tell him I’m angry, and I am, then maybe I’ll encourage him to fight back and get him into worse trouble. If I tell him I’m ashamed, which I don’t want to believe is true, I’m afraid he might accept it, might have more reasons than I know to further shame me. Why would the people here not hate us? I have no idea what to tell him, what to say to any of them. All I do is turn away and stand just outside the tent flap listening to the sound of the grown-ups talking in Cree.

  When it’s clear the helicopter is on its way, I walk back to the Mission side alone. I need to go before it gets too dark to negotiate the bridge. Thomas and Winyam belong on the helicopter with Rosemary and Watikwan. When I finally get to the mainland, I don’t rush to the hospital to make sure she is all right. I don’t find Thomas and thank him for saving her life. I don’t offer her father a couch to sleep on if he can’t find any other accommodation on this side. I don’t tuck Watikwan into bed on Cheepash’s couch and tell him we have work to do writing books tomorrow if he wants. I don’t look for Singh so I can try to buttonhole him against a wall and yell at him about things he would never understand anyway. Instead, I walk into my house and get into my bed without undressing and stare at the ceiling wishing the words would stop and sleep would swallow me whole. But of course that doesn’t happen.

  .

  “I’m ready now.”

  I see myself wandering in a corn maze. It’s peaceful there, even though I’m clearly lost, until I hear the voice and realize I’m not alone.

  “Dave?”

  I see Watikwan. He leans on his crutches in the shadow of an eight-foot row of swaying grain. How can I possibly rescue him if I can’t find my own way out?

  "I’m ready," he says a little more urgently.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and then reopen them to find us both in my bedroom, safe—in a dream. “Ready for what, Watikwan?” I ask in the middle of a yawn.

  “My book. It’s afternoon. Did you sleep all day?”

  “It’s afternoon? I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  “Wapikoshish has many messages for you, but I don’t know if I am supposed to wake you up or not. I don’t want to forget her words or she’ll be mad and pull my ear.”

  “Just give me a second. Where is she? How is she? She’s okay, right?” I sit up in bed and realize I am still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

  “Don’t talk. You will make me forget. She says she’s sorry she didn’t stay where you told her to stay. She hopes you aren’t mad at her. She says she will be back soon. She says...”

  “Back soon? Where did she go? Everyone thought...”

  “Don’t stop me! She took the fast plane. The medevac. She is okay. Hélène says they have to double-check everything. But Hélène she tells me, just me all alone, that Rosemary is good. Minoshin. She knows that word.”

  “What else did your sister say?”

  “She will teach you how to do artificial refrigeration when she gets back. After she teaches you, then maybe you will teach me?”

  “Artificial respiration. That’s what Thomas did to save her life. Respiration just means breathing.”

  “That sounds easy then. Me, I am good at breathing already.”

  “Yes, you’re very good at that.” I swing my legs off the bed and sit up with a head that feels like I’d been drinking all night. “Thank you, Watikwan. Now I have a message for you. I am sorry I didn’t talk to you longer last night. What Mr. Singh said made me sad. And I guess angry too. I should have told you that you are good. You’re my friend, my really good friend. If people say stupid things that hurt you, or make you mad, you can always come here and talk to me even if sometimes there isn’t much we can do about it. But, Watikwan, never believe them. You have every right to be here on this side of the creek. You have every right to be here in my house studying and drawing or just having fun. I know you didn’t steal. You’re a smart student and my good friend.

  “Are you okay, Dave?”

  “I’m fine. How about you go get settled on the couch, while I change my clothes. I’ll make us some tea. Would you rather have breakfast or lunch? Then we’ll get those words for your new book. Roll up your sleeves we’ve got a lot to do, young man.”

  “I’m wearing a tee-shirt, Dave. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Right, Watikwan.” If the rest of the class has half his enthusiasm for the homemade readers, my last four weeks will be very busy. I fill the kettle, hoping I’ll be too busy now to worry about the wrongs I can’t put right, the things I’ll never fix in Orkney Post no matter how important it’s become for me to try.

  We work until he has to go for kitchen patrol; the words for “Mickey’s Accident” are neatly printed out, and we’ve already started on another project—still untitled. Today I walk him over and get him settled in the hospital kitchen with a peeler and a plate of chocolate cookies before I start anything else. Then I take a walk to clear my head—as if confusion could evaporate like water. I wander past my house on down the winter road so I can breathe the scent of spruce and Labrador tea and escape the sound of planes and power saws. I don’t go far. I find fallen log and let a whiskey-jack put on a show for me, flitting from branch to branch a little closer every time—curious and hopeful of some food, getting braver, cocking his beak and scolding me. It makes me smile but doesn’t put a dent in the turmoil that I feel. Were Suzanne here, I’m absolutely positive she’d fall in love with this, would somehow let the jay restore her courage, help her solve her problems with her kids; I’m just as sure she’d never give it one more try; she’d never risk another failure. The image of Rosemary lying in the roadway, the momentary possibility I could lose her... Well, how could I leave her now? If I’d brought a piece of bread out here I know the jay would take it from my fingers. How cool is that! Just like Sir Visa, who’d steal my beer if I left it unattended for a second. But none of this is helpful, is it?

  Back home, I spend my evening stretching canvas while I drown my random indecisions in Stan Rogers and Buffy Sainte Marie, the volume turned up full. I sleep well, and when, mid-morning, I spot a sleek small plane coming in to land, I quickly stow the art supplies and jog over to the airstrip.

  Anice and Watikwan throw gravel pebbles at a bottle-cap target propped up against the flagpole. Other people stand outside the terminal building: off-duty nurses, Winyam Metatawabin and his wife and children, Thomas and Cheepash. It’s Saturday morning. The sun shines. The wind is calm. Nothing in the air portends the slightest doom, but my gut informs me something big is about to happen. Everyone here seems calm; everyone smiles and laughs. Everyone fixes their attention on the small jet aircraft quietly taxiing back toward us, MedicAir James Bay stencilled on its bright white fuselage.

  Rosemary steps gingerly down the short staircase with Linda right behind her. They both smile in my direction before Rosemary’s family and friends surround her. A suitcase and a few boxes are unloaded and immediately the plane turns and heads t
owards a take off, indifferent to the celebration. Thomas’ pickup truck idles near the terminal. The luggage is stowed and members of the Metatawabin clan start climbing onto the backend of the truck, but Watikwan waves a crutch at me and drags his sister over. “She thinks I forgot the messages. Tell her.”

  I’m all smiles and just about to say how much I missed her, when Rosemary steps up close to me and kisses me on the mouth—without a hint of hesitation or embarrassment, without a wisp of circumspection. In front of everyone, yes, she kisses me. “I’ll be back over in a little while,” she says in a voice that astounds me in its tranquility and confidence. “Don’t disappear on me. I told them I didn’t need an escort, but Linda wanted to do some shopping in the big city. Regulations anyway.”

  There must be panic in my eyes. I’m speechless. Watikwan’s lips move but no sound reaches my ears. Maybe Rosemary has discovered a Star Trek cloaking device? Or did I simply imagine the kiss? Or am I hallucinating all these other people.

  “Are you okay, David?”

  I shake my head. “I mean, yes. I guess. But are you okay? Your brain...”

  “I’m fine. I kept telling them that, but no one would listen.”

  “Rosemary?”

  “I have to go now, David. They’re all waiting for me.”

  “Sure. How is that truck going to make it over? Is the bridge is okay? The road? Two days ago...” I run out of questions. My mind goes blank.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, David? You really look pale. You should sit down.”

  “Did you really just...”

  “Gotta go. I promise I’ll come back.” She smiles warmly, and then takes Watikwan, who is still wide-eyed and speechless, by the collar and guides him toward the waiting truck.

  This is surreal. I open my mouth to call after them with no idea what I’m going to say. “It might be bumpy on the road. Hang on tight—both of you. And rest or eat or something. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Kekwan?” Watikwan finally speaks as they climb into the box and find spaces to sit or lean with the rest of the family. I can imagine what he’s asking her in Cree: What were you thinking? You just kissed my teacher!

  The truck pulls away leaving Thomas and Anice still standing by the terminal. Lending the pickup is another gesture of goodwill I only partially comprehend. He smokes a cigarette and speaks quietly with his daughter. I wave one last time to the Metatawabins before deciding I have been putting off for too long an expression of my gratitude to Thomas.

  I walk over and extend my hand, and he takes it softly, without the slightest show of testosterone.

  “Hi, Anice. Are you ready for school on Monday?”

  His daughter blushes and looks at the ground. Then she glances up, not to meet my eyes, but closer to my mouth and she nods her head. Amazing! A direct communication! This is a day of miracles.

  “I’m surprised. How are they going to get your truck across the ice? I thought it would take weeks before a vehicle could cross.”

  “Thanks to your student and Mr. Singh we made that a priority item. It’s not very smooth yet, but it’s safer now.”

  “I know you are busy, Thomas. You’ve been working very hard.”

  “If you have something to say, now’s as good a time as any.”

  “You saved her life. I know—there are reasons, good reasons, for you to be angry with her—and maybe with me too. I ever meant any disrespect, but I do work at that school and I live on this side. There are a lot of offensive things going on here...”

  Thomas nods. It’s possible there’s a hint of a smile.

  “I expect everyone has thanked you. I thank you too. I really admire what you did.”

  “I guess you mean my son when you say you think you know how I feel about your girl. I imagine she told you about Apishish. When he died I took a Red Cross course down in Sudbury.”

  “She’s very lucky you did.”

  “I suppose the course somehow was supposed to save him—way too late. That probably sounds crazy and maybe it was. It was a while ago and I wasn’t sure I was doing it right the other day. I’m only glad it worked.”

  “You saved her, Thomas. I think I understand your feelings about the school and the teachers. But Rosemary, she was really young back then.”

  “You aren’t a parent, are you? Of course, they were young—both of them. Day-before-yesterday? It didn’t matter who was hurt. A person was hurt. I would have done the same for anyone. You are teaching me something, teacher. Every wemistikosho is not the same.”

  “I appreciate that, Thomas.”

  “You still have a lot to learn about this place, about us.”

  “I know that. I want to. I’m at least starting to learn how much I don’t know.”

  “You have a good teacher. Treat her well.”

  He flicks his cigarette at the no smoking sign, takes his daughter’s hand in his, and begins the long walk through the ice canyon. I can see the truckload of Metatawabins just now climbing out of the ravine and into the village leaving me standing alone, looking across the compound at my very empty house.

  .

  Walking to the school on Monday morning, I have a hard time believing the hunt break is really over. I don’t know where the weekend went; time flew so fast. All at once I have responsibilities again defined by contracts and a boss. My students’ holiday, walled in by helicopter rescue and travel south and loss of homes and who knows what other tumults, now screeches to a halt inside my classroom. If I were them, I’d be higher than a kite. I dread the pent up energy that could explode at any time. Add to that the news that Rosemary kissed their teacher at the airstrip, and I don’t have a clue what to expect this morning. I’m ready for the worst.

  When the day begins, however, they merely smile as they settle into their desks shuffling their sock feet on the cool tile floor. They look eager—if maybe just a little chatty. They’re attentive, maybe hopeful I can find a new idea, one of some importance to them, something relevant they can chew on. It's not surprising, then, I’m happily exhausted by the time our morning recess rolls around.

  Going to the staff room for a coffee is much more daunting than facing my class. The last thing I want to hear is their complaints about their work and being back in Orkney, back in contact with each other. The last thing that I want to hear is their struggle with the language of instruction. The last person that I want to see is Singh. With the intent of returning to my classroom, I quickly fill my mug and retrieve the thick slice of bannock I put in the staffroom fridge this morning. Much more than a mid-morning snack, it’s a reminder of yesterday’s cooking fire at our picnic spot down the winter road. The rich, smoky smell of the bannock transports me into the bush and into her arms again; it revives the memory of us watching the muskrats slip through reflected clouds like they were arrows sliding through a phantom sky. There was no goose yesterday. The contents of the village freezer have now been burned along with all the other perishables. We roasted a whole chicken from the Bay store sakabon style, its skin taking on the same warm hue as the bannock. We imagined it was goose, the same way we imagined today, tomorrow, the end the school would never come.

  “It smells like you have the piece of bannock, monsieur. She is cooked on the open fire, no?”

  “Yes, Sister. I’m learning a few things.”

  “You would perhaps share just a small taste.”

  “Of course.” I break off a corner and watch her taste it.

  “Very good, M. Taylor. Good bannock is an art. You have learn this fast, this Indian cuisine.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  “Could we have a word before I ring the bell?” she asks, but it isn’t a question. It never is. She takes my elbow and escorts me out the door and down the hall to her office.

  Once there she closes the door—not a good sign. I have coffee to drink and a snack to eat before my students return. “I really need to check some things in my classroom before my next lesson.”

  She m
otions me to sit before clasping her hands in front of her rosary and launching into what is sounding like a carefully rehearsed speech. “You have become quite the popular teacher with your students. Popularity she can be la femme dangereuse. She is a temptation. But dis pleases me dat your students are happy and you are happy in dat classroom. You are happy teaching here, are you not, M. Taylor?”

  “Yes. It’s come as a bit of a surprise considering the other teachers act so miserable.”

  “Not everyone finds it easy to work with dese children.”

  “I like the kids. It’s fun to watch them learning things. It’s a new world for me.”

  “I want you to know if you had dat teaching certificate, I would offer you the contract for next year. I say dat even with our different opinions. Getting the qualified teachers to come here, it is not so easy—even to get teachers who are not so qualified. If your wife will come back next year, I am happy to use you as the supply teacher. You should consider, M. Taylor, getting dat certificate.”

  “Go back to school? I don’t think so. I’m not too fond of being a student. I think I’d make a better artist, really. Thanks, but I don’t think I couldn’t do it.”

  “Think about it. Dere is no rush for a big decision.”

  “I can’t see going back to school, Sister.” This conversation is becoming too long for recess.

  “What I must tell you is you have the big decision to make, and you must make dat decision quite soon. I hope you are aware dat without dis job, dere is no housing here for you.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Actually, housing is probably the least of my worries.”

  “Even before dis flood, housing she is the hardest thing in Orkney. People wait many years to get a house. Dere is never enough.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  "You may think teaching is an art. Really it is the craft. It takes many years to learn. You picked out some things very quickly, but you still have much to learn.”

  “I see what you’re saying, Sister. But I’m...”

  “Then you understand. Tomorrow is the new month, the last month. It is your month of decision. Whether you wish dat or not, I will mention you in my prayers. In one month you will no longer have a place to live in Orkney Post.”

  “I...”

  “I must ring the bell. Go with God, David.”

  Sister barely has time for a parting grin before scurrying out of her office. I linger there for a moment, listening to the ticking of her clock. A month. Her wall calendar is already turned to June. I close my eyes. Time is slipping through my fingers like a rope slipping through the eye of an anchor. This time my boat is crowded with other faces—all of them looking at me and shaking their heads in wonder at my foolishness as I take my cooling coffee and bannock back to my classroom.

  Chapter Nine

 

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