In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  I wasn’t really thinking about anything when I noticed my arms and hands. They were tanned a deep, golden brown. A lot of pure white people tanned just like this. Poor Cheryl. She would never be able to disguise her brown skin as just a tan. People would always know that she was part Indian.

  It seemed to me that what I’d read and what I’d heard indicated that Métis and Indians were inclined to be alcoholics. That’s because they were a weak people. Oh, they were put down more than anyone else, but then, didn’t they deserve it?

  Anyways, I could pass for a pure white person. I could say I was part French and part Irish. If I had to, I could even change the spelling of my name. Raintree looked like one of those Indian names, but if I changed the spelling to Raintry, that could pass for Irish. And when I grew up, I wouldn’t be poor; I’d be rich. Being a half-breed meant being poor and dirty. It meant being weak and having to drink. It meant being ugly and stupid. It meant living off white people. And giving your children to white people to look after. It meant having to take all the crap white people gave. Well, I wasn’t going to live like a half-breed. When I got free of this place, when I got free from being a foster child, then I would live just like a real white person.

  Then the question came to my mind ... what about Cheryl? How was I going to pass for a white person when I had a Métis sister? Especially when she was so proud of what she was? I loved her. I could never cut myself off from her completely. And she wouldn’t go along with what I had planned. I would never even be able to tell her what I’d planned. I sat there thinking for a long time, but the problem wouldn’t be resolved. Well, I had a long time to figure that one out. For sure, she would never turn out to be like the rest of the Métis people. She and maybe Mrs. MacAdams were special people. Cheryl was already a whole lot smarter than all the rest of the kids in her class. I sighed, stood up, and stretched. I felt I was ready to face whatever the DeRosiers had in store for me. One day I would be free of them. One day ...

  Over the summer holidays, Maggie was going to Vancouver to visit her grandmother. I looked forward to the day when she would be leaving because she, more than Ricky, made my life miserable. She had started coming into my room whenever she felt like it, saying it was her house and she could go wherever she pleased. One night, she was looking at my suitcases thoughtfully, and then she said, “I’m going to borrow your suitcases for my trip.”

  I looked up at her and said, “You can’t take them with you. What if I had to move while you’re gone?”

  “Move? My mother’s not going to let you move from here. C’mon Ape, I’ve got to start packing tonight,” she said, in what was supposed to be a sweet, coaxing voice. I knew very well that her mother would let her have her way, but I still felt stubborn. “Look, you owe it to me. You live in my house and eat our food. You’re just lucky I don’t tell Mother about your selfishness.” With that, she dumped all the things in my suitcases on the floor and took them with her.

  When she came back from the trip, she kept my suitcases. I asked her several times to give them back, but she would ignore me. One day, I entered my bedroom and my suitcases were there. They had been scratched up as if Maggie had deliberately tried to cut into them with a knife. Inside, there was dried red fingernail polish poured to form the words, “Ape, the bitch.” I was angry but there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t even show them to my social worker because it would be Maggie’s word against mine. I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.

  That same night, during supper, Maggie said, “Mother, Ape let me use her suitcases, and I forgot to give them back right away. So you know what she did today? She went up to my room, threw my stuff around, and stole some of my money and my jewelry. I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but it makes me mad that she can just come into my room and do that.”

  I couldn’t believe what she’d said, and I looked over at her with complete astonishment. I practically growled at her, “You bloody liar!”

  Mrs. DeRosier slammed her fork and knife onto the table, stood up, and came over to where I was sitting. She slapped me across the side of the head, took a vise-grip of my arms, and yanked me out of my chair to shake me, seemingly all at the same time. And she was screaming.

  “Don’t you ever talk to my daughter in that tone of voice again! Who the hell do you think you are? We take you in because your parents don’t want you, we give you food and shelter, and this is how you pay us back?” Then she asked Maggie, “Is your room still in the same condition that April left it in?”

  “Yes, it is, Mother,” said Maggie in an injured tone of voice.

  “April, you march up there right now. We’re going to see what you did. And then you’re going to get the strapping of your life.”

  I’d never seen Maggie’s room before because the upstairs was off limits to me. Her room was beautiful. The fancy furniture was white with gold trimming, and all of it matched. Her bed even had a canopy over it. The wallpaper was of pink and yellow roses. But right now, books, papers, and clothing littered the deep pile rug.

  “You must be a sick girl, April, to do this kind of thing. What did Maggie ever do to you?” Mrs. DeRosier asked.

  All the while, I was being shaken about like a rag doll. She marched me back down to my room and started to look through my things. In one of the pockets of my coat, she found some money and some earrings. Maggie was standing at the doorway with a smug look of satisfaction on her face. While Mrs. DeRosier went for the strap, Maggie said softly, “That’s what you get for bugging me, April Raintree.”

  The beating I got that night was one of the worst, but I wouldn’t cry. That seemed to infuriate Mrs. DeRosier all the more. I was sure that after that, she would have me moved. I thought the beating would have been worth it, after all. I waited for things to start happening, but over the next few weeks, nothing more was said about the incident.

  At the end of the summer, Cheryl and I had another visit. When we got to the Children’s Aid office, we were told that our parents were not expected to come. I felt guilty about the resolutions I had made a few months back. To make up for it, I told Cheryl how our family life had been when we were all together. That is, I told her the good things. I told her how Mom used to rock her to sleep and sing songs to us; how Dad always laughed and joked and played with us for hours, telling us lots of stories; how we would all go out to visit our aunts and uncles, or that they would come over to our house; how Dad would bring out his fiddle and play while everyone danced jigs. I wondered if it was right to tell her only the good things. Maybe I was lying by not telling her about the drinking and the fights and the dirty children. But then, Cheryl didn’t need to know that just yet. I wanted her to be happy.

  At our next family visit in October, only Dad came. He explained that he had been up north and couldn’t get back for our visits. Mom, he said, was sick. Cheryl accepted the explanations with ease. She was, as usual, affectionate with him. But I knew the truth about them. I was aloof but polite. I had thought once of telling him about what a bad place the DeRosier farm was. But now I didn’t bother. He wouldn’t care. He’d pretend to care, but he wouldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t have much to say to him. As children, that would be the last time Cheryl and I would see him.

  Winter and spring passed. Life with the DeRosiers was the same: miserable. I had become bitterly passive, and I now said fewer prayers. I was sure that God had heard me say I hated him, and that he’d never heard me ask for his forgiveness. Three more visits were arranged, but our parents never showed up. Each time, Cheryl would end up crying. She was beginning to change. Before, she had been outgoing, always talking, and normally cheerful. At the last two visits, I tried my hardest to bring out her laughter but was rewarded only with sad smiles.

  By the end of June, I had passed Grade 6 with a low B average, and that was because English, French, and Math were easy for me. I felt torn in different directions and often changed my mind regarding my parents. Sometimes I would th
ink of the life I would have been leading if we were all together. So what if we were poor and lived in slums? Being together would be a million times better than living on this horrible farm. Other times I would remind myself that my parents were weak alcoholics who had made their choice, and then I would loathe them. Or I would think of the Dions and all their religious teachings. What was the sense of praying to a God who didn’t care about me either? Regarding Cheryl, it was still a question as to how I was going to live as a white person with her around. I had probably seven more years of being stuck with the DeRosiers, and if not, then in some other foster home. Seven years of not having control of my own life.

  Most of the kids in my class were excited about the summer holidays. Some were going away on trips. Me, I was just going to be alone, unloved, with nothing to look forward to. Seven more years ...

  Did I ever feel sorry for myself.

  4

  In July, Mrs. DeRosier had her husband move an old, musty-smelling dresser from one of the outbuildings into my room. It had a cracked, spotted mirror on it, and the thing looked like it was about to fall apart. But I was grateful to have something to put my things in and wondered why the small kindness. Later, Mrs. DeRosier went out and bought an old cot from an auction and had it put in my room. Since it was in worse condition than the one I already had, my curiosity was really piqued. I suspected that Maggie knew the reason, but I knew better than to ask her. She and Ricky had stopped calling my parents drunkards. I knew it was my lack of reaction that made them ignore me for the most part. Now, they were constantly at each other, to their mother’s mortification—and to my amusement.

  I was weeding in the garden the morning the car drove into the farmyard. I glanced at it, not really caring who it was. I glanced again, surprised to see Miss Turner get out. My face had a grin from ear to ear when I saw Cheryl getting out on the other side. I dropped my garden tool and ran over to her.

  “Cheryl, what are you doing here? Oh, I’m so happy to see you.”

  Mrs. DeRosier had her phony smile showing, and she said to me in a pleasant tone, “I wanted this to be a surprise for you, April. Your sister has come to live with us. We all thought this would be a good idea because your parents haven’t come to see you.” She then took Miss Turner into the house for a cup of coffee.

  I turned to Cheryl and asked her why she had moved from the MacAdams. I knew that she had liked them a lot, and that they were real nice people.

  “They asked me last month if I would like to move with you. I asked why you couldn’t move there because you didn’t like it here, but they just said they didn’t have the room. I told them that I liked them, but that I’d rather be with you. So here I am.” Cheryl shrugged and grinned, as if she had pulled off a brilliant plan.

  From the day she arrived, I changed. I was more alert and openly defiant towards the DeRosiers, sending them silent warnings to leave my sister alone. She and I did all the chores together, and while we did them, we talked and joked around. While we did the outside work, Maggie would put on her bathing suit to tan herself and would lie on a blanket wherever we happened to be working. The first time, she tried to order Cheryl to go in and get her a glass of lemonade. Cheryl said, “Get it yourself.” We were weeding in the garden, and I was further away from Maggie and behind Cheryl. I stood up and eyed Maggie with such loathing that Maggie got up and went off to get her own drink.

  “You lazy half-breeds,” was her comment as she stalked off.

  I bent down to resume my weeding, and Cheryl turned to me and said, “See? That’s all there is to it. They got no guts.”

  Before Cheryl had come, the DeRosier’s dog, Rebel, had always followed the foster boys around, down to the barns or out to the fields. Now, he stuck close to Cheryl’s side. Whenever I took Cheryl down to my favourite spot by the river, the big yellow mongrel came with us. Cheryl told me the MacAdams had taken her to see this movie, Old Yeller, and Rebel looked like Yeller. She’d tell me all about the television shows that she’d seen. Since I’d moved to the DeRosiers’, I wasn’t even allowed to go into the living room where the television set was, except to clean it.

  Our privacy at the river was protected for us by nature. A few times before, the DeRosier kids had tried to follow me. Maggie found the underbrush too scratchy and too difficult, and she had given up. Ricky had come down with a bad case of poison ivy the first time. The second time, there had been too many mosquitoes for his liking.

  When school started in September, the DeRosier kids encouraged the other kids on the bus to pick on Cheryl and me. Cheryl was easy to goad, and she’d get into verbal exchanges of insults. It was impossible for me to get it across to her that that was exactly what they wanted from her. At home, there was a constant testing of wills between the DeRosiers and Cheryl and me. I grew tired of feeling I always had to be on guard. I preferred the passive state I’d been in before Cheryl had come. I was worried that Cheryl would get into physical fights when I wasn’t around. Fistfights were for people who couldn’t keep their self-control. Furthermore, they were undignified. Because Cheryl hadn’t made any friends in her own class, she often sat with Jennifer and me at lunchtimes. We had different recess periods, but I guess she managed to keep out of fights because I never heard of any.

  When our report cards came out before Christmas, Cheryl had maintained her high grades, despite the DeRosiers. My own average jumped considerably. Knowing by their mother’s reaction that the DeRosier kids had done poorly, Cheryl and I were both vain about our marks. It was about the only thing we could rib them about, especially Maggie, and we took full advantage. We’d say things like, “Hey Maggie, you told us that half-breeds were stupid. Well, if we’re stupid, you must lack brains altogether.” It was the only time I’d refer to myself as a half-breed—to spite them.

  It was after Christmas that Cheryl got into trouble at school. She told me all about it at lunchtime. That morning, her teacher had been reading to the class about how the Indians scalped, tortured, and massacred brave white explorers and missionaries. Cheryl’s anger had begun to build. All of a sudden, she had loudly exclaimed, “This is all a bunch of lies!”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” the teacher had said calmly.

  “Then I’ll say it again. I’m not going to learn this garbage about the Indian people,” Cheryl had said louder, feeling she couldn’t back down.

  Everyone else had looked at her as the teacher had gone over and stood by her desk. “They’re not lies; this is history. These things happened, whether you like it or not.”

  “If this is history, how come so many Indian tribes were wiped out? How come they haven’t got their land anymore? How come their food supplies were wiped out? Lies! Lies! Lies! Your history books don’t say how the white people destroyed the Indian way of life. That’s all you white people can do, is teach a bunch of lies to cover your own tracks!”

  The teacher had marched her down to the principal’s office. Cheryl had been scared, but she was also stubborn. She believed she was right, and she intended to stand up for her beliefs, no matter what punishment was dished out.

  Her teacher had explained Cheryl’s disruptive attitude, and then had left the principal’s office. “So what’s this business of upsetting your history class? Learned men wrote these books, and you have the gall to say they’re wrong?” the principal had boomed in his loudest voice.

  “They are wrong. It was written by white men who had a lot to cover up. And I’m not going to learn a bunch of lies,” Cheryl had said, more scared than ever before.

  The man had then pulled a strap from his desk drawer and said, “Now, I don’t want to have to strap you, but I will. You’ll go back to your classroom, apologize to your teacher and to the class, and there will be no more of this nonsense. All right?”

  Cheryl had shaken her head defiantly. “No. I won’t apologize to anyone because I’m right.” Then she had put out her hand, knowing he would give her the strap. He had. Each time he
had hit her, her resolve had grown stronger and stronger. When he had stopped to ask if she was going to come to her senses, she had answered, “Giving me the strap isn’t going to change the fact that your history books are full of lies.”

  Seeing he wasn’t going to get anywhere, he had put his strap away and phoned Mrs. DeRosier. She had arrived in about half an hour and was angry. She told the principal she’d had nothing but trouble with Cheryl. He had left her alone with Cheryl in his office. “You’re going to do exactly as they wish or else I’ll call your worker, have you moved, and then I’ll make sure you never see April again. Now, are you going to co-operate?”

  Cheryl had nodded meekly. The fight had gone out of her.

  Before Mrs. DeRosier had left, she had turned and warned Cheryl, “I’m not through with you yet, Cheryl Raintree.”

  When Cheryl told me all this, I swelled with pride. My kid sister was spunky. She had guts—more than I would ever have. But Mrs. DeRosier’s warning bothered me. No doubt, Cheryl was in for a beating, and somehow I had to do something. For the rest of the day, I was nervous, but Cheryl didn’t seem worried at all.

  That night, when we sat down to supper, Mrs. DeRosier said, “Cheryl, since you already got the strap at school, I’m not going to give you another strapping. Instead, you won’t have supper tonight, and when we’re finished, you will do the dishes all alone. Now, go to your room and wait till we finish eating.”

  I was surprised to find that was going to be Cheryl’s only punishment. Since Cheryl had to miss supper, I told Mrs. DeRosier that I wasn’t hungry. “Very well, you can go to your room and stay there for the rest of the night.” With that, she followed me to my room and commanded Cheryl to follow her to the kitchen.