The Redemption of Oscar Wolf

by James Bartleman

  He glanced up at the stained glass window donated to the church by James McCrum in memory of his parents a decade before. In the past, whenever he attended church services in Port Carling, Oscar had found the engraving of a smiling Christ with a lamb in his arms knocking on a door in a garden comforting. This time, however, the eyes of the Saviour were fixed on him and he looked mad. That was the confirmation of his worst fears. That was confirmation that his sins were so bad they were beyond divine forgiveness. He was destined for prison. He was destined to be shunned by all honest people. He was destined to wander after death in emptiness until the end of time, just as Jacob’s shadow had said. Unable to contain his tears, he burst out into such loud and convulsive sobbing that Leila McCrum took him in her arms and hugged him. The choir began to sing and he joined in with such inconsolable fervour that Reverend Huxley and James McCrum exchanged glances and nodded their heads.

  When the service was over and the medals and Union Jack removed from the lid of the coffin, the pallbearers once again took hold of the brass handles and, marching in unison, led the mourners outside to the hearse. Oscar whispered to Reverend Huxley that he wanted to go back to the Indian Camp. Reverend Huxley took him by the elbow and steered him to his car, whispering back to him that he had to go to the cemetery, that he had no choice. Opening the back door, he guided Oscar inside, then joined his wife in the front seat.

  “You have to honour your grandfather,” he told Oscar as he drove behind the hearse to the cemetery. “He was a hero in war and in peace. And if you aren’t at the burial service, you’ll regret it all your life.”

  It was only when they arrived at the cemetery that Oscar remembered that it had been built on land donated years ago by Reg McCrum from property taken from the people of Obagawanung. Jacob, he knew, with his need to be always accommodating, would not mind being buried among white people. But Oscar’s heart told him it was wrong for his grandfather‘s final resting place to be among the pioneers who had expelled him from his place of birth. Bursting out once again into tears, he wrenched open the car door and ran to the Indian Camp only to realize when he got there that Jacob’s evil shadow now occupied the shack and he could never go home again. And with nowhere else to turn, he reluctantly went back to his room at the Huxleys’.

  4

  “I’m worried about him,” Reverend Huxley said to James McCrum who had returned home with him after the funeral to discuss Oscar’s future. “His mother didn’t seem like a very responsible person when I spoke to her on the telephone the other day. She said that it didn’t matter to her who buried her father as long as it wasn’t her and that she definitely didn’t want her son back. I must admit she sounded as if she had been drinking. The Indian agent, when I spoke to him, said his grandfather had already made plans to send him off to residential school until he was sixteen when he could look for a job. And although those schools apparently do a lot of good for Indian children, I’m not sure he would get the nurturing and attention he needs after the traumatic events of the past several days.”

  “My father always had a soft spot for Indians,” said McCrum. “I must admit that I once had my doubts about them, but I changed my mind years ago. Maybe because I got to know his grandfather so well at the guest house and he got along so well with the other employees and the guests. He was a returned soldier just like Clem, but he became a sergeant and came out of the war in better shape. And I want you to know that I was serious when I told everyone the day of the fire that I want to help that young man in any way I can.”

  “It may just be an intuitive feeling,” said Reverend Huxley, “but I think he could become a fine Presbyterian minister someday. He’s the only child from down at the Indian Camp who has ever attended Sunday school and church here in Port Carling. And you should have seen how passionate he was during today’s service. I think he may have a vocation.”

  “I noticed that as well,” said McCrum.

  “I’d like to have him stay with me and my wife from now on and go to high school here in the village. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Huxley. We don’t have children and have plenty of room. If he does well, we could look into helping him study to become a missionary.”

  5

  Mrs. Huxley couldn’t understand why her husband had been in such a rush to take in the Indian boy. The day of the fire, he had gone to the Indian Camp to see about the funeral arrangements for old Jacob and that tourist girl, Lily Horton, and had come home to say he had invited Jacob’s grandson to stay with them for a while, and he hoped she didn’t mind. And after she reluctantly agreed to let him stay for a few days, Lloyd had said they should let him live with them until he finished his high-school education in five years’ time. Maybe, he had added, they could adopt him, seeing as how his grandfather was dead and his mother, it seemed, didn’t want him. It would be an ideal opportunity to help someone who was in deep trouble through no fault of his own.

  Naturally enough, she had not been all that happy. Not that she had anything against Indians. After all, it would not do for a minister’s wife, especially in a small place like Port Carling, where everybody talked and where everybody knew everyone else’s business, to be prejudiced in any way, even if she believed Indians could never become fully civilized, however hard they tried, no more than tigers could change their spots. There was something wild, animal-like in their souls that set them apart from white people. You just had to look at them up close and see those black, unfathomable eyes. And Lloyd hadn’t consulted her before inviting him to spend a few days in her home, although she was the one who would have to cook his meals, change his bedding, and wash his clothes. He probably hadn’t ever seen a bathtub and wouldn’t know about the need to make one’s bed in the morning.

  This Oscar boy apparently did well in the few months he spent at the village school each year. But he never smiled or said hello when she saw him coming from the Indian Camp in the mornings, and he didn’t seem to have any friends among the other students. What did anyone know about him anyway? Maybe he was dangerous. Maybe he would steal the silver that had come to her from her grandmother who had brought it all the way from County Armagh, and run off and sell it somewhere if he took a dislike to them. She really didn’t want someone like that around on a long-term basis. But Lloyd had said that ministers and their wives were expected to show Christian charity, if only to set an example for the other people in the community. He was so set on letting the boy stay with them, and seemed so happy with the idea of it, that she had agreed to let him stay until he finished his high school. But, she told Lloyd, the boy would have to help out around the house, bringing in the wood, taking care of the furnace, cutting the grass, putting on the storm windows in the fall and taking them off in the spring, and shovelling the snow in the winter. And others in the community would have to pitch in and do their share, especially James McCrum, who made such a fuss over him right after the fire.

  And as for adopting him, she told Lloyd that she could never agree to adopt anyone that old. Maybe they could adopt an Indian baby, if he was so determined to have an Indian in the house. Baby Indians were cute and cuddly, but then all babies were cute and cuddly. And cute and cuddly Indian baby boys grew up to be great hulking, dark-skinned, black-eyed, black-haired, sullen, unpredictable teenagers, just like Oscar.

  6

  Oscar was worried when Mrs. Huxley knocked on his door and told him that Reverend Huxley and James McCrum wanted to see him in the study. They know I set the fire, he thought. Why else would they want to see me? The constable’s probably on his way to take me to jail.

  He entered the study and stood quietly by the door until Reverend Huxley saw him and pointed him to a chair. Oscar sat down, lowered his head, and stared at the floor like a guilty prisoner awaiting sentencing from a panel of hanging judges. No one spoke and he could hear the slow ticking of a grandfather clock from across the room and the buzzing of a fly, which he imagined had flown into the room by mistake and was now trying desperately to find a
way out. He could hear the carefree shouts and laughter of boys playing softball in the schoolyard across the street drifting in through the open windows. It was obvious that they had not burned down the business section of the village and killed two people.

  Why didn’t they say something? He could take it! He could take the bad news!

  He could stand the tension no longer. What was happening could not be real. He gasped for air as his tongue grew thick and he found himself floating high up in the room close to the ceiling. He looked down and saw James McCrum and Reverend Huxley hunched forward in their seats, earnestly talking to someone who looked exactly like him, someone who obviously was his double. They were saying things that made no sense: “difficult time … the Lord works in mysterious ways … destiny … much good will come from this.”

  Reverend Huxley, he then saw, turned to McCrum and said, “Stop, stop, it’s too much for Oscar to absorb. Just look at his eyes. He’s totally confused.

  “Now Oscar,” he said, “we are trying to tell you that the two of us want to be your benefactors and provide for your high-school and possibly for your university education. You have suffered a great loss and have no one to take care of you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Oscar?”

  When Oscar’s double did not respond, Reverend Huxley said to McCrum, “I’m sure he understands. He is an intelligent boy, but he’s probably still in a state of shock from his grandfather’s death.

  “Now, Oscar,” he repeated, “I want you to listen carefully. Mrs. Huxley and I have agreed to let you live with us for the next five years while you attend high school here in Port Carling. You would be expected to help out around the house like any other boy your age and get a summer job to help with the expenses.”

  “That’s where I come in,” said McCrum. “You can start Dominion Day working for Clem on the Amick. If all goes well, I’ll give you a job at the general store when it’s open for business next summer. And if your marks are good enough, when the time comes, I’ll pay your tuition and living expenses at university. We should never forget,” he added, “that the Lord works in mysterious ways. He caused that fire that took the lives of your grandfather and Lily Horton and drove away your mother for a purpose. And that purpose was to deliver you into our hands so we could help you fulfill your destiny. And your destiny is to become a missionary and take the word of the Lord to the Indians up north!”

  “Do you understand what we are telling you, Oscar?” asked Reverend Huxley. “Have we made ourselves clear? Do you understand?”

  Oscar at first did not understand. No one had mentioned the constable or jail. And was he really being rewarded for destroying the business section of Port Carling and causing the deaths of Jacob and Lily? That seemed to be the case.

  “Thank you. I would like to be a missionary. I’m ever so grateful, ever so grateful,” he heard himself saying. He then drifted down to become one with his double and to shake the hands of his benefactors who came crowding around speaking at the same time, saying “you are credit to your people … take a few days off before starting work … tired, you look tired … go upstairs and get some rest … yes, go upstairs and get some rest.”

  “Thank you, I would like very much to be a missionary … it’s always been my secret dream … I’m ever so glad … I’m ever so grateful … ever so grateful,” he said, before excusing himself and going to his room.

  7

  That night, Oscar lay awake in an unfamiliar bed, in a strange bedroom just down the corridor from people he scarcely knew. Although relieved he had escaped the constable, flashbacks of the fire tormented him when he drifted off to sleep and he woke up sobbing. Desperate to ease his conscience and bring his suffering to an end, he decided to go back to the shack and seek the forgiveness of his grandfather’s shadow. Although afraid of what he might encounter, he slipped out of bed and hiked over the ridge to the Indian Camp, taking up a position in the dark under the cover of the white pines a hundred yards from the shore. From where he stood, he could see the moonlight shimmering on the water, and on the other side of the bay the outline of the Amick, moored as before to the government wharf. Other than the gleam of coals from a campfire left to burn itself out on the shore by a family that had gathered around it the previous evening to cook fried pickerel and bannock for their dinner, there was no sign of life in the sleeping community.

  A dog barked, and someone yelled “Be Quiet,” and the dog whimpered and was silent. For a moment Oscar was transported back four nights and he was standing on the shore looking across the moonlit bay trying to decide what he should do to get back at Clem and all the people who had ever harmed him and his people. A whiff of smoke and wet ashes returned him to the task at hand, and he crept up to Jacob’s shack and looked into the window. At first, an impenetrable blackness confronted him. But then he made out a vague form, darker than the surrounding gloom, stirring in the obscurity of the interior. To his horror, the foul and appalling thing that had threatened him the night of the fire came into view, assumed the fire-scarred anguished face of his grandfather, passed through the glass, and came after him.

  Oscar turned, his mouth open, too paralyzed by fear to cry out for help, and fled through the Indian Camp, back up the trail over the ridge, past the school, and up to the manse. The fiend kept pace with him, moaning and crying out in pain and anger. He pushed open the front door in a panic, slammed it shut behind him, ran up to his room, knelt down, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

  “I’m sorry, God, for starting the fire that killed Lily and Jacob. If you could only forgive me and give me peace of mind, I promise I will never do a terrible thing like that again. Besides, it wasn’t really my fault. The boys who pulled my pants down should share the blame. So should Gloria Sunderland who laughed when she saw my dick. And how was I to know that Clem wasn’t to blame for beating up my mother. And please, please tell me that the shadow of Jacob was wrong and that the heaven of the Christians is real, just like my Sunday school teacher used to say. And tell me Old Mary was right when she said the souls of my people travel over the Milky Way to spend eternity in the Spirit World. I am terribly afraid of being punished for setting the fire and killing Jacob and Lily. I don’t want to go to Hell after death or wander forever through time in spiritual emptiness. So please, please send me a sign, any old sign will do, to indicate that you have heard my prayers and have forgiven me.”

  But as he prayed, he once again felt he was just mouthing words into the void and he felt as alone and forlorn as ever. However, he refused to give up, and he prayed and prayed all night long, pleading, begging, arguing, and bargaining with God. It was his dark night of the soul, but when the first light of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, instead of spiritual release, he felt as solitary and lost as he had been when he started praying. There was only one thing left he could do: follow the lead of the Indian people who had travelled and lived since the beginning of time on this part of Turtle Island, and seek the guidance of the Manido of the Lake.

  When the Huxleys came down for breakfast at seven o’clock, Oscar was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m going fishing,” he said. “I want to bring you a fish to help repay you for what you’re doing for me.”

  The Huxleys raised no objections, but after Oscar left the manse, Mrs. Huxley told her husband she was concerned.

  “How can someone who has just suffered such a grievous loss go down the river on a pleasure trip? Doesn’t he have any feelings? Don’t Indians mourn the death of their loved ones like decent white people?”

  Reverend Huxley interrupted his wife to say she was worrying unnecessarily.

  “Different people mourn in their different ways. He’s gone off somewhere important to him to try to come to terms with his loss.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I know Indians, and they don’t act like that. I think he might be running away because he did something wrong. Maybe we were in too much of a hurry in deciding to take him in and in e
ncouraging James McCrum to support such ambitious plans for his future. And if he does come back, I’m sure it will only be to sponge off all of us. And what are we to do if that mother of his comes around? She has the reputation of being a wild woman and a drunk. There are limits to Christian charity.”

  Friends and relatives crowded around Oscar when he went over the ridge to the Indian Camp to prepare himself for his visit to the Manido of the Lake. They were sorry about Jacob, they said, but it was comforting to know he had died a hero and gone to a better place. Some people wanted to know why Oscar had slept outside the night of the fire, saying they had checked on him from time to time to be sure he was all right.

  “You could have stayed with any of us,” they said.

  Others asked him how long he would be living at the manse. Someone asked if the Huxleys had a bathtub and if he had used it. What did the Huxleys eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Someone else told him he was lucky to have been taken in by rich white people and asked him if he would be going to the Port Carling high school. “If you do,” the questioner said, “you won’t find it easy to get along with the white kids, but anything is better than being sent to a residential school. Your mother went to one of those schools and that’s why she turned out the way she did.”

  Oscar didn’t say much in reply. Reverend Huxley and his wife had asked him to live with them, he told them, and he had agreed. In the meantime, he was going to take Jacob’s canoe and go down the river to do a little fishing and try to make sense of what was happening. But he didn’t want to go inside the shack to get his grandfather’s fishing gear. “Too many memories,” he said. “Can someone go in and get it for me? And his pipe and a package of pipe tobacco as well?”