Medicine River

by Thomas King

  I told Harlen I liked Toronto. There were good restaurants, places to go. Things to do. Medicine River was small.

  “American Hotel is a great place for a beer. Baggy’s just opened a sit-down restaurant. You got the Rockies, too. You see over there,” Harlen said, gesturing with his chin. “Ninastiko…Chief Mountain. That’s how we know where we are. When we can see the mountain, we know we’re home. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

  Harlen dropped me off at the Travel Lodge. Later that evening, James came by, and we had dinner together. He had washed his hair, but his eyes were still slick and dull.

  “I may go to San Francisco,” he said. “Always wanted to go there. What do you plan to do?”

  “Stay in Toronto, I guess.”

  “Pretty exciting?”

  “I guess.”

  James looked over my shoulder. “Been a long time, Will,” he said, softly. “‘Man of the house,’ wasn’t that it?”

  “Christ, James.”

  “Man of the house.”

  James drove me to the terminal and sat in the car with the motor running, while I got my bags out of the back seat. I remember saying that we should stay in touch, and then he was gone.

  I sat in the airport that evening. It was only then that I began to feel my mother’s death. I was slipping from melancholy to depression when Harlen walked through the double glass doors of the terminal. He had a folder in one hand, and he waved it at me.

  “Will, good, you haven’t left yet.” Harlen sat on the seat across from me, the folder on the chair beside him.

  “You know, Will, I’ve been thinking about you wanting to start up a photography business here in Medicine River. I was talking to Bertha Morley. You know Bertha? She’s Sadie Bruised Head’s granddaughter.”

  “Harlen,” I said, “I’m not starting a business in town. You have lots of photographers here already.”

  “No Indian photographers, Will. Real embarrassing for us to have to go to a white for something intimate like a picture. Bertha says you got a lot of relatives on the reserve. You think they’d go to a stranger for their photography needs when they can go to family?”

  The loudspeaker came to life and announced the departure of my plane.

  I got up and shook Harlen’s hand. “I’ve got to go, Harlen. If you get to Toronto, look me up.”

  “When you decide to come home, Will,” Harlen said, handing me the folder, “you just call. That’s what friends are for.”

  I was halfway across the tarmac to the plane when I stopped and looked back. Harlen was standing by the window waving. I found my seat, and as the plane taxied out to the runway, I could see Harlen settled against the glass, smiling.

  I didn’t look at the folder until the plane levelled off. There was an information package about Medicine River from the Chamber of Commerce. It had a map of the city and a colour brochure that pointed out the amenities that the city had to offer. There were also several xeroxed sheets that Harlen must have copied from the local phone book.

  It was the photography section, and Harlen had made notations next to each advertisement. Alongside Lynn’s Photography, he had written “too expensive.” Next to Fred Dillar’s Photographic Studio, he had written “not too friendly on the phone.” Across the large advertisement that Pierre du Gua’s Photography and Salon had paid for, Harlen had scribbled, “Eddie says the guy doesn’t like Indians.” On the last page, after Terry’s Studio, Harlen had printed in bold, block letters, “No competition for an Indian photographer.”

  * * *

  —

  BUD PRETTYWOMAN stood up and pulled his cummerbund down. “What do you think, Will, boy or girl?”

  “Jonnie?”

  “The wife thinks it’s going to be a girl.”

  “What’s happened to Harlen?”

  Bud smoothed one of his braids and set his beer down. “Floyd says Harlen’s drinking again. Saw him at the American the other afternoon. Looked pretty bad, Floyd said. Heard him in the bathroom throwing up.”

  “Harlen doesn’t drink.”

  “Something must have happened. Figured you might know, you being good friends and all.”

  * * *

  —

  I GOT BACK to Toronto just in time to become unemployed. Walter Zneick ran a commercial photography studio. What kept us going were the large commercial contracts. But Mr. Z had started out as a portrait photographer, and he kept a small studio at the front of the building. I more or less ran the studio. When I got back from the funeral, Mrs. Callaghan, the secretary, told me that Mr. Z had sold the business and that the new owners weren’t going to keep the portrait studio. “He feels awful, Will, but there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  I looked around Toronto for a few months, took the occasional free-lance job, but nothing seemed to settle. I was sorry I had thrown out the folder.

  So that’s the way it happened, coming home, as Harlen said. I packed my things in wooden crates and cardboard boxes and arranged to have them sent west. I didn’t call Harlen.

  There was a four-hour layover in Calgary, and by the time we left, it was evening. We caught the sun as it started to drop behind the Rockies. There was a young girl sitting next to me by the window. You couldn’t see a thing for the clouds, but as we began our descent, she pointed through the glass and said, “That’s Medicine River, mister. That’s where I live.”

  It was dark when the plane landed. In the glow of the lights, I could see people standing around in the terminal. There were children, excited, running back and forth and couples huddled up in one another.

  I was walking across the tarmac when I saw him. Harlen Bigbear. He was leaning against the glass, smiling.

  * * *

  —

  “YOU KNOW,” said Bud Prettywoman, “it’s hard to get someone to stop drinking once they’ve started. Floyd figures that Harlen is depressed about Doris.”

  “Doris died fourteen years ago.”

  “Floyd figures that it’s what they call post-partum depression. You know, where something happens, but it doesn’t hit you until some time later.”

  “Bud, post-partum depression is what women get after they have babies.”

  “They get it, too? Maybe you better ask Floyd. He read a book or something. Floyd’s pretty smart, you know.” Bud looked around the room. “Pretty good wedding. Jonnie looked real good. Hope the baby don’t look like Cecil.”

  Bud wandered across the empty floor to the door. “Catch the lights when you go, would you, Will? And maybe, if you see Harlen, tell him hello for me. Tell him it was a good wedding.”

  I packed up my gear, turned off the lights and went looking for Harlen. The American Hotel was busy, and it took me a good twenty minutes of looking before I was sure that Harlen wasn’t there. Floyd and Elwood were sitting at a table with a couple of women.

  “Hey, Will. Sit down. Never see you in here. Have a beer. Maybe you want to buy the next round.”

  The smoke in the American was thick and blue. I could hardly breathe. “No, thanks. You guys see Harlen?”

  Floyd looked at Elwood, and Elwood looked at the table.

  “Haven’t seen him tonight,” said Floyd.

  “Someone says they thought he was drinking again.”

  “Yeah, I heard that, too,” said Floyd. “Heard he was at some bar the other day. Looked real bad, I heard. Throwing up in the toilet.”

  “Anybody know where he is?”

  “Could be anywhere, Will. Man starts to drink, he loses track of where he is,” and Floyd turned to the women. “Am I right?”

  I left Floyd and Elwood drinking their beers and chatting up the women. The American was the Indian bar in town, but there were others that I had heard the boys talk about. I stopped at each of them. Harlen wasn’t there. At about midnight, I figured I’d stop by his apartment on the off chance he had come home. His car was parked in front. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Harlen kept a key on the back porch. Everyone knew whe
re it was. Anyone who needed a place to stay the night could just come by, help themselves to the key and curl up on the couch. I had slept there for the first three weeks after I came back to Medicine River.

  The place was dark, but I could smell the acrid odour of vomit. Harlen was lying on the bed in just his undershirt and shorts. There was a bucket next to the bed. He looked awful.

  There was really no point in waking him, so I went to the kitchen and started some coffee. “Coffee’ll make you feel better,” Harlen liked to say. “Drives the blood right to your head.” I took the bucket to the bathroom and emptied it and left it in the tub to soak. I found a blanket in the closet. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I ARRIVED back in Medicine River, Harlen insisted that I stay at his place. The next morning, he took me around to the DIA people and began talking about a small-business loan. “Man’s a world-famous photographer, you know. Worked in Toronto.” And he took his time with each syllable in Toronto, as if the word was magic. Whitney Oldcrow shook his head and explained to Harlen that his office couldn’t make loans to non-status Indians, that he was sorry but that was the way it was. We went to three banks that afternoon and out to the reserve the next day.

  Harlen was indefatigable. “This is Will, Rose’s boy. Will, this is…” By the time we headed for town, I’d met sixty or seventy people.

  “You watch, Will. Few days and word gets around that there’s a world-class Indian photographer in Medicine River, and people will be asking you to take their money. Couple of the banks we saw yesterday are probably trying to call us already. You got a name for the studio yet?”

  The banks didn’t call, but I was able to arrange a loan with a local credit union that was looking for new business. I had my own equipment, so I didn’t need all that much.

  “How about Redman Studios?

  “Maybe you should call it Chief Mountain Photography.

  “Ought to have something catchy like First People’s Photography.

  “Need a name that’s personal like Will’s Photographs.”

  I settled on Medicine River Photography. Harlen wasn’t all that keen on the name. “Doesn’t have much zip, Will. Maybe you should add and Salon and pick up some of the French business.” I found a place across from the old post office, and in four months, I was open.

  Harlen was my first customer. He wanted a photograph, a portrait of himself in his dance outfit. “You can put it in the window, if you like. Pierre du Gua does that, and so does Fred Dillar. Helps to bring the business in. People coming by the window and seeing me in my outfit, sure to bring in business.”

  I put the picture in the window, told Harlen there was no charge, but he insisted on paying the full price. “No good to give it away, Will. You won’t stay in business long.” When the business cards came, Harlen took them out to the reserve. He took some down to the Friendship Centre and passed them out to anyone he met. At the end of the first month, he stopped by and took me to lunch. When the waitress brought the check, he left two business cards along with the tip.

  By the end of the first year, I was making money.

  * * *

  —

  I WAS HAVING my second cup of coffee when I heard Harlen moan. He had rolled over on the bed and was leaning over the edge.

  “Harlen,” I said, “you okay?”

  Another moan.

  “You want the bucket?”

  “God, Will, I feel awful. What are you doing here?”

  “Thought you might need some company. I’ve got some coffee on.”

  “Couldn’t drink it.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “Maybe some soup. There’s some chicken soup in the cupboard. Soup would be real nice, Will.” There was a pause, and Harlen’s body tightened. “Maybe bring the bucket, too.”

  I was searching through the cupboard, when the front door opened and Bertha Morley walked in. “Will,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d come by and see if I could help.”

  “That’s nice,” said Bertha. “People should help like that. How’s he doing?”

  “Still pretty drunk. You want some coffee? I’m making him some soup.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Don’t know what started it. Bud Prettywoman said Harlen just started drinking. Didn’t know why. You got any idea?”

  “Bud see him drinking?”

  “Floyd told him.”

  “How was the wedding?”

  “Nice.”

  “I was supposed to be there, but my boy’s got that flu. I really wanted to see the wedding. Did Jonnie show much?”

  “Couldn’t tell.”

  “Harlen’s not drunk, Will. He’s just got the flu. You had it yet?”

  “Flu?”

  “Everybody’s getting it. Harlen got it Friday. It was my birthday. We went to the American for lunch. He was pretty sick then, but you know Harlen. Spent most of lunch in the bathroom.”

  Bertha found the soup and put the water on, and I went back into the bedroom. Harlen was sitting up. I wondered if he had heard me.

  “Hey, you’re looking better. How you feeling?”

  “Pretty rough, Will. Wouldn’t get too close. No sense you catching it, too. Was that Bertha?”

  “Yeah, Bertha’s making the soup.”

  “How was the wedding?”

  “Good wedding.”

  “Lots of food?”

  “More than enough.”

  “Real nice of you to stop by, Will,” said Harlen, and he lurched forward and retched over the bucket.

  “That’s what friends are for,” I said.

  “You bet.”

  Bertha and I sat with Harlen while he tried to eat some of the soup, and I told him about the wedding and who was there and what the bride wore. I told Harlen that Bud Prettywoman said to say hello.

  As we talked, I remembered the night I came in from Toronto, getting off the plane in Medicine River, and walking towards the lights in the terminal. I was almost to the doors when I saw Harlen leaning against the glass, looking as though he hadn’t moved in all the months I had been gone. And as I stepped into the terminal, I remember wondering just how long he had been standing there waiting.

  8

  Harlen had an ear for depression. He could hear it, he said. “You know, Will, women can hear their babies even before they start to cry. And Barney Oldperson’s dog, Skunker, can hear Barney’s half-ton coming across the river eight miles away. Bobby DuLac says he can hear voices, but that doesn’t count. And people all the time are saying that they can hear a pin drop.”

  Harlen and I were driving back from a basketball tournament in Salt Lake City. Every year, the Native Students’ Association at the University of Utah holds an invitational basketball tournament. Money tournament. Good money, too. And every year, the Medicine River Friendship Centre basketball team goes to the tournament. And every year, we lose.

  “So, how come you’re depressed, Will?”

  “I’m not depressed.”

  Normally when we go to Salt Lake, we take the Friendship Centre van, but this time, Big John Yellow Rabbit needed the van for the elders who were going to Calgary to see the hockey play-offs against Edmonton.

  “She just needs some time, Will.”

  It was just as well. Neither of us smoked; all the rest of the boys did. You can only drive for so long at sixty miles an hour with your head hanging out the window.

  “You think the boys will be all right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “They got Leroy’s wagon, the drum, a case of beer, a bunch of those cheap cigars, and a general idea of which way north is. What else could they need?”

  “That’s pretty serious depression, Will. Maybe you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m not depressed.”

  Well, maybe I was a bit down. I didn’t like losing, especially close games. And I didn’t like talking about it.

  “I just
don’t like losing close games, Harlen.”

  “Will, they beat us by twenty points. Hell, they’re the team that took the championship. Maybe it’s about Louise?”

  “It was close at half-time. It has nothing to do with Louise.”

  I was probably a little upset about the shortcut we had taken, too. Harlen had looked at the map in Salt Lake and said we should go through Casper, Wyoming on the way home, since we had never seen that part of the country and it wasn’t any longer. By the time we stopped for coffee in Rawlins and I looked at the map, it was too late to turn back.

  “Getting old’s not so bad, Will. You can’t play basketball forever. More important things in life. Wife, kids, good television set, hot shower.”

  * * *

  —

  I MET SUSAN at the McMichael Art Gallery. A friend of mine, Bob Hobson, who edited a journal on cultures and the environment, asked me to take some candids of an exhibit of contemporary Native art that the McMichael was showing for an article he was doing.

  “It’s in Kleinburg. You can use my car.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just some candids. You know, people standing around looking.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe a shot of one of Joanne Cardinal Schubert’s war shirts. Something like that. Use your judgement.”

  She was looking at a painting by a Cree artist, Jane Ash Poitras.

  “Nice painting,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  She nodded and smiled the way you do when you hope the other person will disappear.

  “I’m photographing the show.” I waved my hand around the room as if the gesture would magically transform me into something other than a toad. “For a friend. For an article.”

  “It is a nice painting,” she said. And she left. I went back to my camera, relieved she had let me escape with only minor bruising.

  Two weeks later, I stopped by Bob’s office to drop off the slides of the show. Bob wasn’t in, and his secretary said I should leave the slides with his assistant in the next office. She was sitting behind the desk.