Indians on Vacation

by Thomas King

  But you’re not committed, are you?

  I may take one back for Mimi. If she can’t eat it, I will.

  You just talk a good fight. Eugene spreads out in the chair, his fingers interlocked behind his head.

  I check the clock on the wall. Mimi hasn’t come down, so I suppose that she’s still in bed. I gather up the banana and the pastry and head to the room. Eugene stays behind.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz, he shouts after me. Writing-on-Stone? Lois Paul? How about we talk about Lois Paul?

  As I expected, Mimi is still in bed.

  Kitty is sitting in the chair by the window, her face swollen from crying. She’s dying.

  I put the banana and the pastry on the table by the bed.

  Kitty stares at the food. Are you trying to kill her?

  I lean over and pat the lump that I guess is Mimi’s butt. “You feeling any better?”

  “Did you bring me anything to eat?”

  “A banana.”

  Mimi rolls over and pokes her head out of the covers. “No pastry?”

  “Don’t know that you want to eat something like that.”

  Mimi sits up. “That looks like a pastry.”

  “You should probably start with the banana.”

  “Then you’ll eat the pastry.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Mimi uses the sheet to wipe her nose. “Do you love me?”

  Kitty turns to the wall. He left you to die.

  “Yes,” I say. “Very much.”

  “Then give me the pastry.”

  Mimi eats the pastry, and then she eats the banana. “Is that it?”

  “I could get a pizza.”

  “Smart ass,” says Mimi, and I can see that she is much better. “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “Under your arm.”

  I had forgotten about the newspaper.

  “Is that a newspaper?”

  “New York Times.”

  “English?”

  In addition to reading menus and historical markers, any kind of signage, Mimi loves reading newspapers. And not just the stories.

  “Read it to me.”

  “It’s a big paper.”

  Mimi scoots back under the covers. “I’m sick.”

  I catch Kitty’s eye and hold it. “But you’re not dying.”

  “Of course I’m not dying,” says Mimi. “Start with the headlines.”

  Mimi commandeers all the pillows and blankets and makes herself a nest. I sit on the edge of the bed and read the paper.

  Presidential adviser convicted of lying to Congress. Bank profits at all-time highs. Multinationals, the new face of organized crime. The iPhone everyone has to have.

  Another school shooting in Florida.

  “You’re not skipping any stories, are you?”

  “No.”

  “What about the real-estate ads?”

  “You want me to read real-estate ads?”

  Mimi snuggles down into the pillows. I’m hoping that she might offer me one, but she doesn’t.

  I read a story about the refugees from Syria, which shows the routes they take as they make their way to Germany, and another about a scientist in Japan who claims to have created an enzyme that will extend the shelf life of fish.

  “I’ll skip the sports?”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t like sports.”

  “That’s not true,” says Mimi. “The scandals are pretty interesting.”

  The fashion section almost puts me to sleep.

  “Let’s do the obituaries,” says Mimi. “Over-under.”

  Whenever Mimi gets her hands on a newspaper, she inevitably winds up at the obituaries, where she compares the ages of the people who have died with ours.

  Over-under.

  I work my way down the column. “Under, under, under, under . . .”

  “That’s four in a row, Bird.”

  “Here’s another.”

  “Are we that old?”

  “Here’s an over.”

  Mimi sits up. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Still thinking that you’re going to die?”

  Kitty pulls her feet up on the chair and raises her hand, as though she knows the answer to this question.

  “You think about it.” Mimi snuggles down under the covers. “I’m going to take a nap, and when I wake up, I’ll expect an answer.”

  So we’re in Prague, and it’s late afternoon. Mimi wakes up from her nap, and now she is feeling better.

  “I’m going to take a bath,” she says. “A soak in the tub is always a good idea.”

  “Sure.”

  “You want to join me?”

  “In the tub?”

  “You know what happens when I have a slight fever.”

  “You get horny.”

  “Women get sensual,” says Mimi. “Horny is what men get.”

  There’s no profit in trying to argue this point.

  “Are you horny?”

  I fill the tub with hot water and sit on the toilet, while Mimi has a long soak.

  “Why do you put a washcloth on your breasts?”

  “So the girls don’t get cold.”

  At intervals, Mimi works the faucet with her toes, so the water in the tub stays hot. I go back to reading the newspaper.

  “There’s a story about a new sock technology that is supposed to help circulation. The company claims that if you wear their socks, it will help with energy levels.”

  “Socks?”

  “They’re recommended for diabetics.”

  “Maybe you should try them, Bird.”

  “I don’t need socks.”

  “The ones you have cut into your calves.” Mimi rearranges the washcloth. “Every time you take off your socks, it looks as though someone has tried to strangle your legs. What else are the socks supposed to do?”

  “Says they help with depression.”

  “Maybe the socks would save you from your demons.”

  At the top of the article is a small box that says “Paid Advertisement.”

  “It’s not real,” I say. “The company who makes the socks paid for the article.”

  “Ah,” says Mimi, “the line between reality and fiction.”

  “There’s a line?”

  “Find the classifieds,” says Mimi. “The classifieds are always fun, especially the personals.”

  I flip through the sections of the paper. Then I do it again. “Nope, no classifieds.”

  “What?”

  “It looks as though The New York Times no longer has a classified section. Maybe it’s only online.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing.” Mimi soaks the washcloth and puts it back on her breasts. “Then we’ll just have to make up our own.”

  I fold the paper and set it down beside the toilet.

  “Ravishing Blackfoot woman seeks virile Indigenous man,” Mimi calls out from the tub. “Must have newer pickup and his own teeth. Steady employment a plus. Likes travel and adventure, pizza and hot dogs. Smoking and drinking are turnoffs.”

  Mimi paddles the water. Little ripples form and break against the sides of the tub. “Okay, your turn.”

  “I don’t want a turn.”

  There’s no food left from this morning, so I’ll probably have to go out and find something to eat.

  “What would yours sound like?”

  “What?”

  “Your personal ad,” says Mimi. “If you put a personal ad in the paper, what would it say?”

  “I wouldn’t put a personal ad in the paper.”

  “None of us would,” says Mimi, “but if you did . . .”

  “I still wouldn’t do it.”

  “Broken-down Cherokee photojournalist wishes to share his life with beautiful Blackfoot woman,” says Mimi. “Or beat-to-shit Greek photojournalist wishes to share his life with beautiful Blackfoot woman. Which one do you like?”

  “Broken down? Beat-to-shit? Really?”

&nbs
p; “Okay. ‘Senior.’”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Here we are,” says Mimi. “You on the toilet, me in a warm tub. This is life, Bird. This is our life. This is our life right now.”

  When Mimi gets out of the tub, she is all brown and wrinkly. It is not an attractive look, and while I enjoy her naked, I don’t object when she gets into her clothes.

  “Don’t throw the paper out,” she tells me.

  “We’ve already read it.”

  “Nothing wrong with reading a newspaper twice,” says Mimi. “You always miss something the first time through.”

  It’s evening now, and I can feel my blood sugars beginning to drop. “I need to eat.”

  “What about me?” says Mimi. “I didn’t have breakfast.”

  “You had a banana and that pastry.”

  “And I didn’t have lunch, either.”

  The light has softened. In another hour or so, it will be dusk. If we go out now, I won’t need my sunglasses.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “We’re in Prague, Bird,” says Mimi. “We didn’t come all the way to Prague to stay in a hotel room.”

  “Oz thinks we should make up a story about Uncle Leroy.”

  “Make up a story?”

  “Sure,” I say. “We could tell your mother that we found out that Uncle Leroy was injured in an accident in Prague, that he met a woman, got married, had a bunch of children, and died a happy man.”

  Mimi looks skeptical. “Okay,” she says. “So what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In this story. How was he injured?”

  “He fell off a horse.”

  “What was his wife’s name?”

  “We’d have to make one up.”

  “Maybe you should ask this Oz,” says Mimi. “Since it’s his idea.”

  “I’m just telling you what he said.”

  “And why would we do this?”

  Truth be told, we make up stories for all sorts of reasons. To protect ourselves. To feel superior. To deflect blame. To turn disaster into advantage. For no better reason than that we can.

  “I’m not saying we should,” I tell Mimi. “But it’s an option.”

  “Lie to my mother?”

  “You lie to her all the time. Remember the time when you—”

  “I don’t lie,” says Mimi. “Sometimes I leave details out.”

  “Like the time you . . .”

  Mimi sits up on the edge of the bed. I can see that she’s thinking about getting up, but her face has an unhealthy tint to it, and her eyes don’t sparkle.

  “You okay?”

  “Evidently not,” she says and lies back down. “Maybe I’ll just stay here.”

  “I can go out and get more food.”

  Mimi pulls the blankets over her body and curls up into a fetal position. “You know what I really want?”

  “To go home?”

  “Canned peaches,” says Mimi. “I’d like some canned peaches.”

  “We could get canned peaches in Guelph.”

  “Did you think about what I asked?” Mimi peers at me from under the covers. “About dying?”

  I stand and stretch.

  “You’re not dying, you know.”

  I stretch some more.

  “And when you get back,” says Mimi, “you can read the newspaper to me again.”

  IX

  So we’re in Prague.

  The sky is dark, the city is aglow, the streets are busy with happy tourists. I wander around trying to think of what I can bring back to the hotel. Bananas should be easy enough to find. I’m not sure about the peaches, but I can always pick up a box of crackers.

  White rice.

  I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. Invalids and white rice. Upset stomachs and white rice. Bland, bland, bland. And available at any Chinese restaurant in the world. If Uncle Leroy and the Crow bundle had been a Chinese restaurant, we would have found them years ago.

  And I find one on a side street just before Old Town Square. It’s a small place, brightly lit, with pictures of the available dishes on a sandwich board. In terms of quality, this is never a good sign, but there is little one can do to ruin white rice.

  I’m reaching for the door when it flies open, hits me in the chest, and knocks me to the ground. I don’t even know that I’ve fallen until I look up and see a woman standing over me.

  “Oh my god!”

  My head hurts, and my eyes don’t want to focus. I’ve hit my head. That much is clear. And my right hip aches. I move my hands. Then I move my legs. I don’t think anything is broken.

  “Are you all right?”

  The woman is young. Not yet thirty. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Not White. Not Black. Sturdy. A handsome woman. Not pretty, though I doubt I would feel any better if I had been run over by a lingerie model.

  A man comes out of the restaurant and closes in on the woman. “Jesus, Kal, what the hell did you do?”

  “It was an accident,” she tells him.

  “Is he hurt?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Hey, old-timer.” The young man bends down and squints at me. “You okay?”

  I don’t like him already.

  “How many fingers?”

  The woman helps me to my feet and starts brushing me off. “I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her.

  “See,” says the young man. The accent is American. East Coast. “He’s okay. No harm, no foul. Am I right?”

  “I’m Kalea,” says the woman. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “He’s okay,” says the man. “Come on back inside.”

  “Jesus, Bryce, show a little respect.”

  “Our food is going to get cold.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t let your food get cold.”

  Kalea stands there with her hands on her hips, and for just a moment, she reminds me of Mimi.

  “Please join us,” she says.

  “What? Come on, Kal!”

  “I insist,” says Kalea. “It’s the least I can do. Please.” And she holds out a hand.

  Kalea Tomaguchi and Bryce Osbourne. Kalea is Hawaiian and Japanese. Bryce is white-collar Boston. He’s the third Bryce Osbourne, but doesn’t use “Bryce Osbourne the Third,” because it sounds stuffy and old-fashioned.

  “My grandfather’s era,” he tells me.

  “Blackbird Mavrias.” I shake their hands in turn.

  “Italian?” says Bryce.

  “Mavrias is Greek,” says Kalea. “Isn’t it?”

  “Greek and Cherokee,” I say.

  “See, Bryce,” says Kalea, “all the best people are mixed bloods.”

  Bryce smiles and throws up his hands. “What?” he says. “Now it’s a crime to be White?”

  Kalea and Bryce have a table for four, so it’s no problem to squeeze me in. All the staff have to do is bring a plate and utensils.

  “I hope you like General Tsao chicken,” says Kalea.

  “Every time we do Chinese,” says Bryce, “Kal orders that.”

  “And you always order the chow mein.”

  “We’re predictable,” says Bryce. “But we’re also compatible.”

  “Maybe,” says Kalea.

  “Come on, Kal,” says Bryce. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

  Whatever the offence, it’s easy to see that Kalea is not ready to forgive or forget. It’s not a comfortable situation, but having been attacked, I discover that I’m hungry.

  “We can order more if we need to,” Kalea says.

  “We still have dumplings coming,” says Bryce. “And Sizzling Beef in Black Bean Sauce.”

  Kalea takes some of the General Tsao chicken. “Are you married, Mr. Mavrias?”

  “Come on, Kal.”

  “I’m with someone.”

  “How long?”

  I smile. “Longer than you’ve been alive, I’m afraid.”

  Kalea turn
s to Bryce. “You hear that, Bryce. That’s the kind of relationship I want.”

  Bryce turns petulant. It happens quickly, as though there’s a switch that he can throw at will. “Yeah,” he says in a lilting sneer, “and just where is his wife?”

  “At the hotel,” I say. “I’m afraid she’s sick.”

  “And you’re getting medicine for her?”

  “Kinda hard to do that when he’s sitting eating with us,” says Bryce.

  “I figured I’d find her some white rice. Maybe a banana.”

  “That’s sweet,” says Kalea, and she reaches out and touches my hand.

  NAOMI GALLANT.

  Tally was five years old when Mimi and I broke up. No particular reason. Just a series of annoyances and frustrations, angry words and callous actions. We were young, full of ourselves, with no real sense of what it meant to live a life together. We were apart for about six months before we decided to try again, before we began working on our relationship with a firm purpose of amendment.

  “A firm purpose of amendment.” That was the crap phrase the Christian Brothers had taught me in parochial school. But it wasn’t religion that kept us from drifting away.

  It was our daughter.

  At first we asked the question, what would she do without us? And when we had gotten that bit of egotism out of our system, we asked the more important question: what would we do without her?

  But in that time, in those months out of sight, out of mind, I had had an affair.

  Naomi Gallant.

  WHEN KALEA TOUCHES my hand, she reminds me of Naomi Gallant. It is an unexpected memory. It is also pleasant, and I don’t pull my hand away.

  Bryce taps the table with his chopsticks. “Then I guess you better get going.”

  “Yes,” I say, “I should.”

  “Not yet,” says Kalea, and she squeezes my hand. “Maybe you can help us.”

  “Come on, Kalea,” says Bryce, “we don’t need the advice of some stranger.”

  “In all that time,” says Kalea, “you must have learned a thing or two about love.”

  “You should ask Mimi about that.”

  “But I’m asking you.”

  Now I’m not so hungry. “Just take care of each other.”

  “You mean respect each other.”

  “Sure,” I say. “That’s always a good start.”

  Kalea turns to Bryce and waits.

  “I respect you,” he says, but he’s too slow off the mark, and it sounds as though he has had to think about it.