“There’s coffee.” Jude kept typing on his laptop. He used his left hand to indicate the carafe and plate of muffins on the side table.
“You were expecting me?” Bridget retrieved the goodies. She poured a cup and refilled Jude’s mug.
“Yep. The drunken jailbird sprung the coop. I figured you’d need to talk.” Jude clasped his hands behind his head in the high-back leather chair. “How’s Kyle?”
Forget discussing Kyle’s first visit, or how seeing Adam had created a perfect storm of anger, confusion, and wistfulness to blaze through Bridget’s insides like a tsunami.
“Good,” she said in the same sweet voice as artificial as the sweetener she’d plopped into her mug.
“Nice answer. Good. Isn’t that what everyone says? How’re you really doing?” The smirk Jude bared was the same know-it-all grin he’d shoved at her from the time they’d been toddlers.
Bridget lifted the cup. She made the same ghoulish face of crossed eyes, wrinkled nose, and exaggerated sneer in response to Jude’s big-brother asshattery.
He sat forward in the chair, chuckling. “Ooh. I see someone pushed your temper button.”
“It’s not funny.” Bridget aimed her chin at him.
“Oh-ho, now I’m getting the chin. I did push a button.” Jude’s smile faded, and he folded his hands on the desk, the same as Dad always did. He was too much like Dad, from his thick, black hair, Roman nose, and firm mouth, to his eyes blacker than a moonless night up at the reserve, and dark-brown skin dusted with red undertones. No doubt he’d yank one of Dad’s famous lectures from his pants pocket.
“If you need help with a lawyer—”
“I don’t need help.” She sipped the steaming brew. Instead of the coffee uncoiling the knots chafing Bridget’s shoulders, the tsunami invaded her stomach.
“Nobody does it on their own. Lookit Emery. He had a lot of help when he decided to leave seminary.” Jude flexed his index finger just like Dad.
Bridget bristled at the pointed finger, but the mention of Emery’s name at least conquered the tsunami. She should put aside her invading pride and visit her little brother this weekend, even if it meant enduring Dad’s unwelcome advice.
“Before she left, Char dropped some good news. There’s talk of nominating you for president-elect for the diocese.”
Oh my goodness. This couldn’t be true. Bridget had been a part of the Catholic Women’s Association from the age of sixteen. “I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Start by saying yes.”
“Of course I’ll say yes. You know how much this means to me.”
“You’re more than qualified. You covered all the bases at the parish level—convenorships, treasurer, secretary, president. You’re now on the diocesan council. The women believe in you.”
True, but much to Bridget’s embarrassment, the parish women had piled on a boatload of sympathy, understanding, and worst of all, pity, after she’d sent Adam packing. Then there was the humiliation of his arrest and incarceration.
“Judging by your red face, I’d say your mind’s elsewhere. How long’s his parole?”
“Three years.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot the judge tossed eight hundred books, the bench, the jurors chairs...” If Jude shook his head any harder in disdain, he’d morph into a bobblehead.
“What I don’t understand is why they let him out so early. What he did to that guy—he shoulda served two-thirds of his sentence, no matter what,” Jude continued on in Dad’s condescending, authoritative tone.
Neither did Bridget understand. Model prisoner was what the parole board had said. She’d written a letter, stating Adam faithfully wrote Kyle, constantly enquired about his son, sent small presents when Adam’s canteen was plump enough to afford so. “Maybe it had to do with his uncle’s murder.”
“You said a rival gang killed the uncle in prison?”
Bridget shuddered. “The Syndicate Skins. It happened during Adam’s first week of his sentence. Maybe he didn’t want to die in prison? His uncle was in for murder. I think Adam might have seen his own future. His uncle was killed in the shower. Someone stabbed him.”
Jude pressed his fist against his mouth. His cheeks puffed. “You never answered my other question. How’d the visit go?”
“Oh, Adam put on his usual charade.” Bridget waved her hand.
“The concerned father?” Jude’s black brows lowered and pinched together.
“Did he ever.” Bridget’s gut still flamed at Adam’s behavior, as if he really cared about Kyle.
“You want me to pay him a visit?” Jude cracked his knuckles, grinning.
“I think I’m a little old for you to fight my battles.”
“Thirty-six isn’t old. Neither is thirty-seven.”
“Please don’t bother him. You’re the one always saying to leave everything in the Lord’s hands.”
“And the Lord helps those who help themselves.”
Now that she sat in the nosey family hot seat, Bridget sympathized with what Emery had endured when he’d contemplated leaving seminary.
Yes, Adam deserved everyone’s wrath, but facing Dad’s meddling and obstinate accusations was enough to sour the coffee in Bridget’s stomach.
Still, she’d take Kyle to Ottertail Lake to visit his grandparents. Her family was all he had left now. Adam would return to his old ways. She’d give him three months—tops.
* * * *
Adam flopped on the twin bed he’d been using for the past week. The mattress creaked and groaned under his weight. The room was a metaphor of his life—old, used furniture better served at the local dump, dull, gray walls in need of a new paint job, linoleum peeling and cracked. He might as well be in his old cell.
He rubbed his temples where a light throb had erupted. He couldn’t get down on himself. He wouldn’t get down on himself. For once he’d take responsibility for how his life had turned out, instead of blaming his mother, his father, his sisters, his uncles, his aunts, the government...
Being the youngest of the family, he’d prove change was possible. Just because someone was born into a hopeless situation didn’t make them hopeless.
Someone rapped on the door. “Guimond, phone call.”
Adam sat up. Who the heck was calling him here? He rose. His family didn’t give a shit what happened to him. He thrust open the door and clomped down the hallway, passing the closed doors of other boarders at the halfway house.
Only one person would contact him. It was that time when phone calls to friends and family happened at the iron house. The big clock at the end of the hallway confirmed his suspicion. Stony Creek was an hour behind.
Dougie, one of the supervisors, plopped in the chair in the sitting area.
Adam had no choice but to take the call. If anyone was listening or traced the conversation, he could expect to wear another set of silver bracelets. He lifted the receiver. “‘Sup?”
“Listen to the news. She’s doing her four-day walk. Find out what happened.”
Before Adam replied, the line went dead. He set down the phone. Four-day walk. Cutter’s daughter. The news.
Adam reached for the remote from the coffee table and flipped to Northwestern Ontario News. For a half an hour he sat on the sofa. Finally, the camera panned in on the McIntyre River. Light from the rising sun crept across the sky. The Ontario Provincial Police’s dive team moved about the shoreline. Some stood at the waiting ambulance. A city police officer pushed back the small crowd of reporters.
“This morning at seven-thirty, the OPP underwater recovery unit pulled a body from the McIntyre River near Isabel and Simpson Street,” the newswoman said. “Police refused to comment if the body was Sheena Keesha, a sixteen-year-old Indigenous girl from Big Rock First Nation, which is four hundred and fifty kilometers north of the city. Keesha, as previously reported, went missing six days ago while in protective child care. Friends confirmed she was last seen outside of The Gator Bar on Brodie Street and Victoria Avenue. T
his marks the fourth Indigenous youth to go missing this year.”
Cutter was right. The police wouldn’t do anything about Sheena’s disappearance. She was just another lowlife Indian, drunk or drugged up, getting what she deserved for hooking herself outside of a bar for cash.
This was why Adam had spent his time in the pen studying up on the most important people of the Anishinaabe Nation—women and children whom he’d failed.
The men sitting in a cell, or on a bar stool drunk, or tweaking at a flop house had failed those they’d once held precious. As warriors, their role was to protect, feed, shelter, and clothe the women and children. But as men, they’d forgotten how to be fathers, husbands, hunters, and most important, spiritual—the direct path to Creator and what made a man a man.
There were twelve of them for supper. They sat at the big dining table, passing around the bowl of mashed potatoes, platter of meat loaf, and plates of fresh tomatoes and bread. After a week of this food, Adam might as well be back in the pen. Bland. Tasteless. Seasonless. But food was food.
He shoveled a big helping of meatloaf into his mouth. From across the table, the eighteen-year-old punk watched. There were only two whites here. The punk was one of them. He’d come in the other day fresh from rehab. The rest of the men were ‘Nish, good ol’ slang for Anishinaabe.
Nobody talked at supper. Nobody talked at breakfast. Nobody talked during chores. Stupid people ran their mouths. Smart people kept their traps shut.
Tonight, Adam would hit a twelve-step meeting. Ninety meetings in ninety days was the rule of thumb, but Wednesday evenings were his men’s sharing circles at the Kitchi-Gaming Friendship Center. The last Thursday of each month was the sweat lodge ceremony.
He still hadn’t found an elder to confide in, but he needed one to help him continue the learnings of his culture. He already had his Anishinaabe name from an elder who’d visited the pen. Wabun-Inini—Man of Dawn.
Quite appropriate. He’d been given the name because of his rebirth. Dawn brought a new day. Promises. Hope and faith, the elder had said.
“Heard you’re going to a meeting tonight.” The punk, Logan, plopped on the couch.
Adam rubbed his full stomach and checked the clock on the wall of the lounge. Six-thirty. The meeting started in an hour. Perfect timing, because he’d have a half an hour to return before his nine o’clock curfew. “Yep.”
“S’okay if I go with?”
Adam couldn’t say no. Part of the program was giving away what he had, and what he possessed was sobriety. Even so, looking out for someone and sharing his experience was still new to him.
“Yeah.” There, he’d agreed, when he normally would have told the punk to fuck off.
Logan was straight out of rehab for heroin abuse. Eighteen and a junkie. Adam wasn’t supposed to judge, but a guy had better luck stopping traffic on the Trans Canada than getting off the crap. Too many of his friends had died sticking needles into their veins or chasing the dragon.
“Got no ink?” Logan studied the bare parts of Adam’s skin. “Thought you would, ‘cause I heard you were an—”
The silencing look Adam sent the punk shut down Logan fast.
He held up his hands in retreat. “It’s cool. It’s cool. Hey, check out mine.” Logan bared his forearm. “I’m gonna get more. My bud did this one. He can do one for you.”
“Nope.”
“Why not? Everyone gets inked.” Curiosity filled Logan’s blue eyes.
“Yeah. Everyone. Pass.”
“Oh? You think it’s too mainstream now?” Logan half-smiled.
“Yep.”
“Figured you weren’t the sort of guy who did mainstream. Go your own path, y’know? People follow you. You don’t follow them.” Logan balled up a piece of paper in his hand. “I... err... uh... I don’t wanna go to slippery places. Y’know? We gotta talk.”
“About what?”
“My uh... girlfriend. She kept... I gotta do it. Gotta do it.”
“Never mind your girlfriend.” Adam kept his arms and legs crossed and stared at the TV screen. “This is about you.”
“She’s dead.”
“Dead?” Adam turned to Logan’s stiller-than-glass eyes.
“She... she went missing when I was in ‘hab. I told her to chill before I went in. Said I’d come and get her when I got out. She wouldn’t listen. She... they pulled her from the river. I know it’s her. I know it’s her.”
Cutter’s daughter was Logan’s girlfriend?
The punk’s skinny body trembled. His long, blond hair cut into a seventies-like feather hung in front of his thin face.
“I dunno if she was still using. She told me when I last saw her that she wasn’t. But being at the bar... the news said that’s where she was last seen. It’s my fault. All my fault.” Tears rolled from Logan’s big eyes, and he swiped at them. “I’m no pussy.”
Adam hadn’t said as much. “Keep on.” He made sure his command was soft—well, as soft as his deep voice allowed.
“I gotta find out what happened. The cops don’t care. Nobody cares. It’s what Sheena said. But I care even if her fam don’t. Her ol’ man, he’s in the pen. He don’t care. Her mom’s six feet below. Drank herself to death.”
Adam shuddered. If he hadn’t straightened out, this could be Kyle as a teenager, shit-talking his parents.
“The counselors at ‘hab told me to stay away from slippery places. How am I s’posed to find out what happened if I don’t go to those... places?”
The same for Adam. Both he and Logan were from the streets, though. “Were you in the system?”
“Yeah.” Logan sniffled. “‘Aid helped me get into treatment. They got this program that helps me until I’m twenty-one. Some transition thing. I’m... I’m gonna get my high school. A lady from the university teaches at the Kitchi-Gaming Friendship Center at night.”
“You Métis?”
“Yeah. Through my dad. He’s Métis. Whatever that is.”
Many kids had no clue about their heritage. Neither had Adam before he’d begun hanging out at a The Red Sky Friendship Center in Winnipeg, determined to find out what the heck Ojibway was and meant. He’d never even set foot on his home reserve, an hour and a half northeast of Winnipeg. He’d been born and raised in the city. The streets of the North End were all he’d known, growing up in North Point Douglas.
“What should I do? I gotta go there. Gotta check The Gator.”
The punk wasn’t old enough to get in the bars. Not that The Gator was famous for checking ID. Still, Adam had promised Cutter he’d find out what had happened to Sheena. If Kyle had gone missing, Cutter would do the same for Adam.
But if his parole officer found out... they’d ship him back to the clink.
Chapter Four: Heart of Stone
Bridget set the groceries on the counter. Kyle dashed straight for the TV to watch his favorite cartoon, a ritual they’d performed every evening for almost four years. She cooked while Kyle cheered for the Z Men.
Nobody was taking this ritual away from her. She seized the cordless phone and called up the emergency number contacts.
“Good evening, Joseph Howarth Society.”
“This is Bridget Matawapit. I am the caregiver for Kyle Guimond. Might I speak to his father, Adam Guimond.”
“Sure thing. Give me one second.”
A few moments later, Adam’s deep “Hello?” came through the receiver.
Bridget squeezed the tomato she held. “It’s me.”
“Bridget...” Adam’s normally low pitch was an octave higher. “How you doing?”
The soft concern in his voice almost melted the film of ice around Bridget’s heart. But he’d humiliated her. He’d lied to her. He’d chosen alcohol over her. “I need to speak to you about something.” She made sure the hardness smothering her chest filled her words.
“What about?”
“It’s about... Kyle.” She moved from the island to the refrigerator. “I know you promised to bake him c
ookies for your next visit. I’d appreciate it if you’d not make him any more promises.”
His sharp intake of breath carried over the receiver.
“That’s all I have to say. I’ll let you—”
“Wait a minute, kwe.”
She bristled at the Ojibway word meaning woman—what Adam had always addressed Bridget by. At first, she’d found the endearment insulting, like an outlaw biker referring to his woman as the ol’ lady. When Adam had explained the word’s true meaning—life-giver, powerful and full of respect for those who carried light and love in their wombs, the heart of the Anishinaabe nation—she’d melted at the romantic gesture.
Now he thought to use the same word to melt her resolve? He could try again—and keep trying.
“What is it?” She fired a zap of impatience into her question.
“Why?”
For such a commanding, strong timbre, Adam’s velvet plea skittered across Bridget’s skin. She dropped the tomato on the counter by the oven. Tingles lightened her head. She scuttled across the floor to the sink. “Why what?”
“Why’re you acting this way?” His voice remained low and gentle, still skittering across her skin.
Bridget palmed her mouth to stop the string of curses ready to jump off her tongue. To smother the red heat baking her skin, she zeroed in on Kyle from the vantage point in the kitchen, who sat in front of the TV, staring blankly at the screen.
“I don’t think I need to explain myself. You’ve made promises in the past that you didn’t meet. It really hurt Kyle.”
The long pause on the other end sizzled in Bridget’s ear. Adam’s eyes, jawline, and lips had probably transmuted to stone. What rolled around in his mind during these long moments of silence? They’d always pierced Bridget’s rear end like a fishhook. He’d probably folded his arms, too.
Bridget didn’t have all night to wait for a reply. “I gotta go. We’ll see you next week.” Before Adam could say anything further, she switched off the cordless phone.
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