“The school bus comes at eight. You will get up at six, go to the henhouse, and bring back the eggs. While I prepare breakfast, you will wash the eggs. After breakfast, you will do the dishes. After school, you’ll have more chores to do; then you will help me prepare supper. After you do the supper dishes, you will go to your room and stay there. You’ll also keep yourself and your room clean. I know you half-breeds: you love to wallow in filth. You step out of line once, only once, and that strap will do the rest of the talking. You don’t get any second chances. And if you don’t believe that I’ll use it, ask Raymond and Gilbert. And on that subject, you will only talk to them in front of us. I won’t stand for any hanky-panky going on among you foster kids behind our backs. Is that clear? Also, you are not permitted the use of the phone. If you want letters mailed, I’ll see to it. You do any complaining to your worker, watch out. Now, I’ll show you where your room is.”
I was left alone in a small room at the back of the house. It was cold, smelled mouldy, and felt damp. There wasn’t even a closet, just nails sticking out all over the walls. I opened one of the new suitcases the Dions had given me and started hanging a few things on the nails. I stopped and sat on the bed. The mattress was soft and warped. Self-pity was not good for one’s spirits, Maman Dion had told me, but right now, I felt sorry for myself. Mrs. DeRosier had said “you half-breeds.” I wasn’t a half-breed, just a foster child; that’s all. To me, half-breed was almost the same as “Indian.” No, this wasn’t going to be a home like the Dions’. Maybe if there were other children, they might be nice. Most people I’d met when I had stayed with the Dions had been nice enough. With this thought, I finished hanging up my clothes, looking forward to the arrival of Raymond and Gilbert, who I thought must be at school.
I was waiting at the kitchen table in order to meet them. Mrs. DeRosier was in the kitchen too, but she only glared at me as if to warn me to stay quiet. I saw the school bus from the kitchen window and thought how nice it would be to take a bus from now on. Four kids got off: two older boys around thirteen or fourteen, and a girl and a younger boy. I was hoping that they would like me. They all walked in, but the two older boys walked by without looking at me, and I heard them going up the stairs. The younger boy and the girl eyed me contemptuously. The boy said to Mrs. DeRosier, “Is that the half-breed girl we’re getting? She doesn’t look like the last squaw we had.”
The girl giggled at his comment.
“April, you may as well start earning your keep right now. Here, I want you to peel these potatoes.” Mrs. DeRosier got out a large basket of potatoes and put them down in front of me. I was sure that the two children must be Mrs. DeRosier’s very own. They made sandwiches for themselves, making an unnecessary mess in the process. When I finished peeling the potatoes, Mrs. DeRosier told me to clean up their mess.
Mr. DeRosier came in at suppertime, and it became apparent to me that Mrs. DeRosier towered over him, not only in size, but also in forcefulness of personality. Mr. and Mrs. DeRosier each sat at the end of the table, and Maggie and Ricky sat across from the three of us foster kids. The only talking at the table was done by the mother and her two children. I finished my milk and reached for the pitcher to pour myself another glass.
“You’re not allowed more than one glass,” Maggie said in a whiny voice. I froze, my hand still on the handle, waiting for Mrs. DeRosier to confirm that statement or to say it was all right to have more. I wondered if I should give in to this girl, then realized I had no choice because Mrs. DeRosier simply remained silent. Slowly, I withdrew my hand from the pitcher and looked over at the mother and daughter. Maggie had a smug look on her face. I wanted to take that pitcher of milk and dump it all over her head. At other meals, she would make a show of having two glasses of milk herself.
When Ricky finished eating, he burped and left the table without excusing himself either way. The other two boys had also finished eating but remained seated until Mr. DeRosier got up to leave. Then they followed him outside. Mrs. DeRosier put the leftovers away and indicated I was to start on the dishes. While I washed and wiped them, Maggie sat at the table and watched. I wondered why this family was so different from the Dions, especially those three. So much malice; so much tension. It seemed to me that it was a lot easier being nice. After all, the DeRosiers were Catholics too. How I wished that my own parents would rescue me, and right this minute would be a good time. I finished wiping the last pot and put it away. I started for my bedroom, relieved to get away from Maggie’s watchful eyes.
“You’re not finished,” Maggie said in a bossy tone. “You didn’t even sweep the floor. I heard you half-breeds were dirty, but now I can see that it’s true.”
“You didn’t do anything yet. Why don’t you sweep the floor?”
“Because it’s not my job. My job is only to see that you do yours. So get the broom!” Maggie hissed at me.
I stood there for a minute, looking down at Maggie. She was still sitting, very composed, very sure of how far she could go. Helpless fury built up inside of me. But I was alone here, unsure of what my rights were, or if I even had any, so I went to get the broom. After sweeping the floor, I went to my room. I had nothing to do but think. Was it only this morning I had felt loved and cherished? Now, I had been told I would have to earn my keep, though I knew that Children’s Aid paid for my keep. And I didn’t like that word half-breed one bit! It took me a while to get over all these new things I didn’t like so I could get ready for bed and say my prayers.
Praying could bring me comfort, Maman Dion had told me. I had memorized the Lord’s Prayer in French and English, but I had never really thought about the meaning of each sentence. Now, I said it slowly.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil ... Amen.”
I would have to forgive these people their trespasses and no doubt there would be many. But, hold on there, God, I thought. I don’t have any trespasses for them to forgive. So how come I’m going to have to forgive theirs? I looked for the answers by trying to recall the talks and the Bible readings while at the Dions’. I remembered the saints and the martyrs: they had been tested. Maybe I was being tested. Maybe what I had to do while I was here was turn the other cheek. When I went to sleep, I was feeling very saintly.
Saturday morning, Mr. DeRosier rapped at my door, telling me I was supposed to go for the eggs. It had been windy all night, and I had not slept well in my chilly room. I sleepily got dressed and went to the kitchen. No one was there, but I saw a pail by the doorway and supposed I was to use that. It was still dark outside, and it took me a while to find the chicken house. There were deep drifts of snow, which had been whipped up by the wind overnight. Another thing I decided was that I didn’t like winter anymore, not as long as I lived on this farm. I gathered the eggs and got nasty pecks from the hens that were too stubborn or too protective. As I floundered through the snowdrifts, my mouth watered at the thought of breakfast, but when I entered the house, no one seemed to be up. I was still cold and very hungry, but I didn’t dare touch anything. I washed the eggs and found that a few had broken, and many were cracked. I worried while I waited for Mrs. DeRosier.
A few hours later, she came down in her housecoat, and she looked a whole lot worse without her makeup. She started to put some coffee on to perk and noticed the eggs still drying in the trays.
“What the hell did you do with these eggs? They’re all cracked. I can’t sell them that way!” I jumped up when she screamed. She picked up a few of them and threw them down on the floor in front of where I was sitting. She went on ranting and raving, not wanting my explanations. Finally, she told me to clean up the mess, and she started breakfast.
When everyone had eaten, she and her two children got ready to go to town. She left me instructions to wash the fl
oors and clean the bathroom after I finished the breakfast dishes. I thought to myself that I was just like Cinderella, except that she wasn’t any kind of mother to me. When I finished my assigned chores, I washed out my own room, trying to rid it of the musty smell. I had a few hours to myself before they came back, but when they did, Maggie, with her boots on, walked all over the kitchen floor, and I had to wash it over again.
On Sunday morning, we all went to Mass. After the services, while Mr. DeRosier and the two older boys waited in the car, Mrs. DeRosier chatted with some neighbours. I was by her side as she explained my presence, adding that I was a lovely little child, and we all got along very well. She wallowed in their compliments on what a generous, good-hearted woman she was to take poor, unfortunate children like myself into her home. I just stood there meekly, too scared to say differently.
I had looked forward to Monday because I would be going to school on a bus. There were a lot of kids on the bus already, and being too shy to walk further, I took the first empty seat near the front. I could hear the DeRosier kids tell their friends that I was a half-breed and that they had to clean me up when I came to their house. They said I even had lice in my hair, and told the others that they should keep away from me. They whispered and giggled, and once in a while, they would call me names. I sat alone in that seat all the way to school, staring straight ahead, my face burning with humiliation. Fortunately for me, no one on the school bus was in my classroom. By the end of the first day, I had made one friend, Jennifer. Unfortunately for me, I had to board that school bus again to go back to the farm. I had decided that I wasn’t going to let them see that their taunts really hurt me.
The months went by very slowly. The kids on the bus tired of picking on me—mostly, I guess, because I wouldn’t react. My tenth birthday passed without celebration. One evening in May, Mrs. DeRosier told me I wouldn’t be going to school the next day because of a family visit. That was my first happy moment since I had arrived. She drove me in to Winnipeg, complaining all the way that these visits would disrupt the routine she had set for me.
I was waiting alone in the reception area when Cheryl came in, bubbling with enthusiasm.
“Hi, April, I got a present for you. Can we go to a visiting room now, Miss Turner?” she asked her worker. After we were left alone in one of the small cubicle-sized rooms, Cheryl turned to me and handed me a gift-wrapped package.
“Happy Birthday, April. It’s a book.”
“You’re not supposed to tell me what it is, Cheryl. Half the fun is trying to guess what it is while I unwrap it.” I grinned at her and shook my head.
“A book about Louis Riel?” I said, and crinkled my nose in distaste. I knew all about Riel. He was a rebel who had been hanged for treason. Worse, he had been a crazy half-breed. I had learned about his folly in history. Also, I had read about the Indians and the various methods of tortures they had put the missionaries through (no wonder they were known as savages), so anything to do with Indians, I despised. And here, I was supposed to be part Indian. I remember how relieved I was that no one in my class knew of my heritage when we were going through that period in Canadian history.
“He’s a Métis, like us,” Cheryl said proudly. “Mrs. MacAdams says we should be proud of our heritage. You know what that means? It means we’re part Indian and part white. I wish we were whole Indians.”
I just about fell off my chair when I heard that. There were a few Indians or part-Indian kids in my class who couldn’t hide what they were like I did. They knew their places. But here was my very own sister, with brilliant grades, saying such idiotic things. Well, I didn’t want to argue with her, so I didn’t voice my opinion.
She continued talking, which was usual for her. “Mrs. MacAdams is a Métis, you know, but Mr. MacAdams isn’t. He teaches somewhere. Not at my school. They got a lot of books on Indian tribes and how they used to live a long time ago.” Cheryl paused for a breather, then continued in a sombre tone. “Mrs. MacAdams gave them to me to read because no one at school would talk to me or play with me. They call me names and things, or else they make like I’m not there at all. This one girl and her friends would follow me home and make fun of me, so I slapped that girl. So her Mom called Mrs. MacAdams. And Mrs. MacAdams says that all the bad stuff was ’cause I’m different from them. She told me I would have to earn their respect. How come they don’t have to go around earning respect? Anyways, I don’t even know what respect is, exactly. I just wanted to be friends with them.”
I knew what Cheryl was talking about from my own experience on the school bus, yet I couldn’t share that with her. I suppose it was my vanity. She had admitted to me that some people didn’t like her because she was different, but I simply couldn’t return that kind of honesty. So, I told her about the DeRosiers, and how much I missed the Dions. Telling her how the DeRosiers were mean to me was easy because they probably didn’t like anyone and it wasn’t only me.
“Why don’t you give those two kids a good whack?” Cheryl asked.
“Are you kidding? Mrs. DeRosier would kill me,” I replied as I leafed through the pages of my new book. “Besides, you can’t go around whacking people you don’t like.”
“Well, that’s what I do,” Cheryl retorted offhandedly.
“And what if the kids are bigger and stronger than you?”
“Then I pretend not to hear them,” Cheryl answered with a mischievous smile. We both laughed over that, and then we talked of more lighthearted things.
I got to wondering about the present my Mom and Dad would be bringing me. Those precious hours together slipped away, and Cheryl’s good mood faded, too.
“Maybe they’re not going to come,” she said as she paced back and forth. She was puzzled and hurt, and she was fighting back tears.
Miss Turner came in to tell me Mrs. DeRosier was there to pick me up. Cheryl begged for just a little more time. I sat back down, and Cheryl came to me and knelt before me. She looked up at me with her large, questioning eyes, now glistening.
“They’re not coming?” she asked softly.
“Maybe they got mixed up on the days or something.” I knelt down to face her on the same level. “Cheryl, no matter what, we’ll always have each other.” I hugged her close, knowing that what I said was of small comfort to her. She started to cry, and that made me cry, too. Miss Turner came and poked her head in, saying I really had to go. We started putting on our jackets. Cheryl looked so pitiful when I left her alone in the visiting room.
Mrs. DeRosier had been told that my parents had not come for the visit. That evening at suppertime, she told her own children they were fortunate in having parents like her and their father, as my parents were too busy boozing it up to even come to visit me. I sat silently, not believing a word of what she said, and pretending the insult of my parents didn’t even bother me. She was forever putting my parents down, so I was getting used to her remarks. But inside, I despised her more than I would ever despise my own parents, even if all the things she said about them were true.
Later that night, I lay in my bed, unable to go to sleep and unable to say my prayers. I couldn’t forget that look on Cheryl’s face when I had to leave her. I felt anger toward my mother and father because they were responsible. They were responsible for me being in this foster home. While I was at it, I turned on our Holy Father in heaven.
“Oh God, why did you let me be born? Why? Why was I ever born? Why do you let these bad things happen to Cheryl and me? You’re supposed to be loving, protective, and just. But you’re full of crap, God! You’re just full of crap and I hate you. You hear me? I hate you!” That’s how angry I was. I started crying.
After I had cried my heart out, I felt sorry for saying those things. At last, I was able to say my prayers and ask God to help me be strong and good.
For the rest of that month, the DeRosier kids taunted me about having drunkards for parents. It was new ammunition for them to use against me, and it bothered me a lot. One Saturday morning, th
ey started in on me again, and finally I made my feeble defence. “They’re not drunkards! They’re sick. That’s all. Sick.”
“Sick? Boy, what a dummy you are. But then, half-breeds and Indians are pretty stupid, aren’t they?” Maggie said maliciously.
“Yeah. Your parents don’t know how to take care of you. They just know how to booze it up,” Ricky added. And then they started mimicking drunken people and talking to each other with slurred speech, laughing at intervals.
“No!” I screamed. I ran out of the house, across the grain fields, running as hard and as fast as I could. They had acted and sounded just like my parents and their friends. I remembered. I could run all I wanted, but I couldn’t run away from the truth.
When I reached the edge of the woods, my side was aching. I stopped and sat down, my back against a pine tree. I was panting and sobbing very hard. By the time I caught my breath, I could picture my parents. “So, that’s why you never got any better. Liars! That’s what you are! All those promises of getting well. All those lies about taking medicine. Liars! You told us, ‘Soon, April; soon, Cheryl. We’ll take you back home as soon as we get better.’ Well, you lied to us. You never intended to get better. You never cared about us. You made Cheryl cry and you don’t even care. And because of you, I’m stuck here. I hate you both for lying to us. I hope I never see you again.”
I got up and started walking back to the house because I still had floors to wash. I stopped and thought, “No. Why should I? They can beat me if they want to. I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. To hell with them! To hell with my parents! To hell with everyone, except Cheryl. Even the Dions didn’t answer my letters. They had lied too. They didn’t really care for me. But that’s okay because I don’t care either!”
I turned back into the woods and made my way through the heavy underbrush. I don’t know how far I walked before I came upon a small clearing that bordered the Red River. The sunlight filtered through the towering trees, warming even the shady spots. The area was alive with the sounds of birds, squirrels, and bugs. But I felt at peace; the tensions from the past months had lifted. I knew I felt this way because I was all cried out, and I had decided that, for now, I didn’t care about anything.
In Search of April Raintree Page 4