Indians on Vacation

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Indians on Vacation Page 19

by Thomas King


  There were pictures on the wall of a large man in a football uniform, down in a three-point stance.

  “That’s my husband, Buddy. Played ball for the University of Oklahoma Sooners. He was on the team that beat Maryland twenty to six for the national championship in 1955.” Bobbie grabbed two bottles from a small refrigerator in the corner. “Buddy never started. He played centre behind Jerry Tubbs. But coach let him in for a couple of plays towards the end of that game so it would be official.”

  It was cool in the sales office, the air conditioner going, the radio tuned to a local station that was playing Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock.”

  “Buddy don’t care much for rock and roll. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Clinton had a high school. It was on West Gary.

  “I went there. Went to OU too. That’s where Buddy and I met.”

  Over a cold RC, I told Bobbie I was looking for my father.

  “Knew a Blackbird when Buddy and I were in Norman.” Bobbie flipped through the phone book but didn’t find any Blackbirds. “Doesn’t mean your folks weren’t here. People in Clinton come and go all the time.”

  The clock on the wall said four thirty. It was probably too late to stop in at the high school and look at the yearbooks. Next to the clock was a photograph of a young woman leaning over the hood of a car.

  “That was me. I was going to pack my bags. Jump on the interstate. Drive off into a Saturday-matinee future. But then Buddy showed up and the girls came along and that was that.”

  I figured I’d eat before I left town. With any luck, I’d catch a ride before it got too dark and make Albuquerque by morning.

  Bobbie tapped her empty bottle on the desk. “So you’re Cherokee and Greek,” she said. “How’s that working out for you?”

  OZ PILES HIS FOOD around the globe. “All over the world,” he says, cutting into his omelette, “people are starving.”

  The part of the globe that is facing me shows Europe and Africa. Greece is in the centre. I can’t see Evia, but I know it’s there. I’m sure that Syria is in the same neighbourhood, but I can’t find it.

  “The Kingdom Trio,” says Oz. “Do you know these singers? They sing about riots in Africa and starving in Spain.”

  “Kingston Trio.”

  “Yes,” says Oz. “The world festering with angry souls.”

  “Unhappy souls.”

  “Did you find Syria?” Oz spins the globe back a little. “Here,” he says. “Below Turkey.”

  Seeing Syria on the globe doesn’t help. “So, they come through Turkey?”

  “Yes,” says Oz. “Sometimes they stay. But most take boats to Greece.”

  “Boats?”

  “Bodrum to Kos. Very dangerous. Not enough boats, always the problem of sinking.”

  “Greece isn’t very close to Hungary.”

  “Then they must walk or perhaps a bus, if they can afford it. Germany is the number-one place. Also, Sweden.”

  Between Greece and Hungary are a number of small countries I know nothing about. Macedonia, Bulgaria, Albania, Kosovo, Montenegro, Serbia, Croatia, Romania.

  “Who knows how they get to Budapest.” Oz shrugs. “Many don’t. And now Hungary has shut the doors.”

  “The trains still aren’t running?”

  I have no eye for distances, but Syria to Greece must be over a thousand kilometres. From Athens to Budapest looks to be even farther. Walking to Germany seems improbable. Sweden impossible.

  “We have seen the refugees,” says Oz, raising his glass of orange juice in a toast, “and they are not us.”

  I HAD DINNER in Clinton at a small café that was attached to a service station. The waitress was an older woman with hair that reminded me of a mouthful of hay and a limp that threw her from side to side. The badge on her uniform said “Gladys.”

  I ordered the burger and a milkshake. “You know any Blackbirds here in town?”

  “Indian?”

  “Cherokee.”

  “Little far west for that. You tend to find them folks around Tahlequah and Muskogee. You headed east?”

  “West.”

  “Come through Oklahoma City?”

  “I did.”

  Gladys filled my cup. “Don’t go to the City anymore,” she said. “Too many coloureds for comfort sake.”

  The milkshake was thick. The burger was overcooked, and the fries tasted as though they had been boiled in crankcase oil. I was tempted to suggest that Gladys might try rubbing a french fry on her bad hip.

  “And when you get to Texas, make sure you keep going. Friend of mine had a car break down in Amarillo, and she’s still there.”

  I had a piece of apple pie for dessert. Scoop of vanilla ice cream. It wasn’t any better than the fries. I drank more coffee, watched the cars go by on West Gary, read a local advertiser that offered everything from end-of-the-year discounts on trailers to water-well drilling. Howe Motors had a big ad on page three.

  Gladys was waiting at the register.

  “If you get to Gallup,” she said as she rang up the bill, “be sure to stop in at Earl’s. North side of the road by the tracks. Not much to look at, and it’s run by a bunch of Navajos. But the food’s jake.”

  It was getting on evening when I stepped out of the café and started walking to the interstate. The air had cooled. It wasn’t comfortable, but it gave you hope that the world wasn’t going to go up in flames anytime soon.

  I had gotten a couple of blocks when a white Cadillac sedan pulled over to the curb. And I hadn’t even put my thumb out.

  “Hey, there.”

  Bobbie Sherman Darnell.

  I squatted down next to the open window.

  “How was the food?”

  “Don’t order the fries or the pie.”

  Bobbie laughed. “I should have warned you. But they got good milkshakes.”

  “Nice car.”

  “Perks of the job,” she said. “I can drive anything I can stick a key in.”

  “So, you’re done for the day?”

  “Off to get Buddy,” said Bobbie. “He’s out at the club.”

  “Golfing, right?”

  “More like bullshitting and drinking. Probably reliving the high school state championship again.”

  The light was dropping. I liked talking to Bobbie, but I needed to get to an on-ramp with enough light left for people to be able to see me.

  “Buddy don’t realize it yet,” she said, “but for him, high school is as good as it’s ever going to get.”

  “You know how far it is to Gallup?”

  “I’d give you a ride, but there’s not much point.” Bobbie smiled and turned the radio up. “Runaway” by Del Shannon. “You’re going somewhere, and I’m not.”

  IT’S AFTER NINE, and Mimi has yet to make an appearance.

  “Today, in The New York Times,” says Oz, “there is an article on Prague.”

  I’m still working the globe, trying to see how the refugees might get from Syria to Sweden.

  “‘Behind Dilapidated Doors Lies a Secret Prague,’” says Oz. “This is the title of the article. Very provocative.”

  “Secret Prague?”

  “Old buildings,” says Oz. “The artists of Prague are taking over abandoned factories, electrical substations, military barracks. Quite exciting.”

  “If you’re a Prague artist.”

  “Exactly,” says Oz. “But not so exciting if you’re a tourist. Tourists like to go to the places other tourists go. The Eiffel Tower. Piccadilly Circus. The Great Wall of China. Disney World. Then when tourists talk to each other, they have much in common.”

  Oz closes his eyes and leans back in the chair.

  “Of course, many tourists do not want to be tourists. They wish to slip away and find the hidden gems.” Oz closes his eyes. “But this is not practical. I have a friend who went to Bottovo. With whom can he share this experience?”

  “So, these places in Prague are . . . dangerous?”

  “Paris is
dangerous. Berlin is dangerous. Naples is very dangerous. Artists are always dangerous.”

  “Metaphorically speaking.”

  “This is why we kill artists before we kill lawyers.”

  “So we should stay on the Charles Bridge?”

  “Only if you are tourists.” Oz takes out his cellphone and taps the screen. “Your last story was to be in three parts. About the social-service system in Canada and how it took Indian children away from their parents.”

  I turn the globe so I can see Japan.

  “But only the first part was published.”

  I’m surprised just how long and thin the country is.

  “And now you are hiding in Prague.”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “But your home is Canada. At some point, you will have to go home.”

  “Probably.”

  “And then what will you do?”

  This is the question Mimi has asked me any number of times.

  “If you don’t write, what will you do?”

  I could feel myself being backed into a corner. “What about you?”

  Oz put a hand to his chest. “Me?”

  “Sure,” I say, coming off the ropes. “Who are you? What are you doing in Prague? And this game. Bears and Bees. If the Bears always win, what’s the point of playing?”

  Oz stops fiddling with the globe. “Is this an interview? Am I to be a story?”

  Sitting in the breakfast room, arguing with Oz, is not what I should be doing.

  “How exciting.”

  I should be gathering food and taking it to Mimi.

  “You will ask questions, and I will answer them, yes or no. Later, you can take my picture.”

  “This isn’t an interview.”

  “Sometimes, when we ask questions about others,” says Oz, “we reveal something about ourselves.”

  “And I’m not doing a story.”

  “Of course, the problem with questions,” Oz says with a smile, “is that we often ask the wrong ones.”

  I DIDN’T CATCH a ride out of Clinton until late, and I wound up spending most of that night at a gas station in Groom, Texas. Early morning, a guy in a minivan took me as far as Bernalillo. From there, I got to Farmington, on to Salt Lake, and then dead west across Nevada and the mountains.

  Four days out to Oklahoma. Five days back. And in all that time, I hadn’t learned a thing about my father.

  I didn’t tell my mother where I had been, what I had done.

  Roofing pay well? she had asked.

  Well enough.

  You going to do more roofing?

  Probably not.

  Any thoughts on what you might want to do with your life?

  A few.

  Don’t wait too long.

  I won’t.

  That fall, I enrolled at a junior college, in their journalism program. And I never looked for my father again.

  OZ CUPS A HAND around his mouth. “I will give you hints,” he whispers. “Ready?”

  It’s Mimi’s fault. If she wasn’t in bed, I wouldn’t be sitting at a table playing twenty questions with a man with different-coloured eyes and a watch on each wrist.

  “Heterochromia.” Oz blinks his eyes a couple of times to get my attention. “This is why I have one blue eye and one gold eye. It is genetic. You might think that this curiosity has a geographical centre, but it does not. This will save you a question.”

  I didn’t come all the way to Prague to play games.

  “Neither are the two watches cultural.” Oz holds his wrists out. “They are not worn for social or religious reasons. This will save you another question.”

  Of course, we’re not going to do anything or go anywhere until Mimi gets out of bed.

  “You could ask me if Czech is my first language.”

  “Is Czech like German?”

  “No. And Czech is not my first language. See. I’ve given you two answers for one question.”

  I check the doorway for Mimi.

  Oz glances at his watches. “But it’s late. I have an appointment.” Oz picks up the globe. “Tomorrow,” he says. “We must continue tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” says Oz. “How else will we get the answers if we don’t ask the questions?”

  XI

  As I let myself into our hotel room, I wonder, not for the first time, why I spend my time chasing after men who are missing or dead.

  My father.

  My grandfather.

  Leroy Bull Shield.

  My mother died just after Nathan was born, but Mimi’s mother is still alive. We don’t visit her much. We talk to her on the phone, but only when the guilt becomes uncomfortable.

  And we have a daughter and a son who deserve our attention, even if they don’t want it.

  I know that Eugene has an opinion on such matters, but I’m able to unlock the door, slip through, and leave him in the hall by himself to talk to the walls.

  “Honey,” I call out, “I’m home.”

  I expect to find Mimi still in bed, wrapped up in the sheets and the blankets like a giant burrito, but instead, she’s sitting in the chair with her sketch pad.

  I know better than to disturb her when she’s working, so I sit on the edge of the bed and wait. She doesn’t like me looking over her shoulder, but I look anyway. Outside, on the bridge, the day is bright and cheery. The sky is blue with wispy clouds. Even the river looks pleased with itself.

  But on Mimi’s pad, the day has become night, black and oppressive. Instead of the crush of tourists, Mimi has drawn a solitary figure slumped against a stone wall, shoulders hunched, face turned away from the light.

  Mimi normally paints water, so this image is somewhat disturbing.

  “Is that me?”

  Mimi doesn’t look up from the drawing. “Do you want it to be?”

  “I like it.”

  “Maybe it’s Eugene.”

  “Eugene?”

  Mimi uses a charcoal stick to turn the background a black velvet. “I’m feeling better.”

  “Good.” I take the perfume tube out of my pocket and hold it out. “You might like this.”

  Mimi turns the tube over in her hand. “Perfume?”

  “From Bloomingdale’s in New York.”

  Mimi waits.

  “The woman who knocked me down, she gave it to me to give to you. I think it was her way of thanking me for walking her back to her hotel.”

  “My hero,” says Mimi. “And now my hero can feed me.”

  “You’re hungry?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “The breakfast room is closed.”

  “I know.” Mimi puts the pad to one side.

  I gesture to the pad. “What about Eugene?”

  Mimi slips into her shoes. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  Mimi is down the stairs and out the door, and I have to hurry to keep pace with her. She strides up the street, takes a left and then a right, trots through a small square without even looking at the crazy statue made up of parts of a horse, a table, and a granite column. On top of the column is the bust of someone most likely famous, but Mimi picks up speed at this point, and I don’t have time to read the plaque.

  Nor do I have the inclination.

  A few more turns before she comes to a stop.

  “Let’s eat here,” she says.

  “Is this a guidebook recommendation?”

  Mimi pushes her way through the doors and strides up to a woman holding menus. “A large table by the window. We may have friends joining us.”

  The woman guides us through a large, open room.

  “Friends?”

  Mimi takes a seat with her back to the wall. “I like to have space when I eat.”

  “You know that this is a hotel restaurant,” I say. “And that the menu has photographs of the food?”

  The restaurant is nice enough. Dark wood and stone, an ambience that splits the difference between a Gothic church and a medieval dun
geon.

  “Did someone tell you that the food here is good?”

  The breakfast selections are proudly North American. Cholesterol rich and deep-fried yummy.

  Two eggs any style, potatoes, bacon, and toast pledging allegiance. Pancakes with maple syrup and sausage humming an anthem. Eggs Benedict with ham waving a flag.

  This is the kind of restaurant we try to avoid, the kind of restaurant that gives travel a bad name.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Why don’t you get the eggs Benny?”

  “I hate eggs Benny.”

  “That way, I can have some of your food.”

  The place gets crowded fast. Men in shorts and polos. Women in sundresses and sandals. Children in branded T-shirts and running shoes.

  “Tourists,” I whisper to Mimi. “We’re in a tourist petting zoo.”

  “We’re tourists.”

  Mimi orders a side of toast and a fruit cup.

  “I thought you were hungry.”

  Mimi watches a young couple as they weave their way through the restaurant, looking for a table.

  “Is that her?”

  “What?”

  “The woman who knocked you down.”

  “What?”

  “Last night. At the Chinese restaurant. The one you walked back to her hotel.”

  It takes a moment for me to catch up to Mimi.

  “That’s this hotel?”

  “What was her name?”

  “Can you spell ‘stalking’?”

  Mimi slow-eats her toast and picks at her fruit cup. “Don’t eat too fast,” she tells me. “We’re on vacation. There’s no need to rush.”

  I can’t believe that Mimi has dragged me here on the off chance that we might bump into Kalea and Bryce.

  “You know what the odds are?”

  “What about those two?”

  I’m nursing a piece of apple pie that Mimi has ordered for me when Kalea Tomaguchi and Bryce Osbourne appear.

  “That’s them,” Mimi says with no hesitation, “isn’t it.”

  ACCORDING TO ONE OF the postcards, Captain Trueblood’s Wild West Emporium had made a swing through the Netherlands, Sweden, and Norway. The card that Uncle Leroy sent home from Amsterdam showed a windmill and several low-slung barges tied up to a dock.

  Weather cold, it said. How are you?

 

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