In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  6

  I had no idea how I was going to get even with the DeRosiers for those horrible rumours. It just made me feel a little better to think I could. I would entertain different ideas, but I discarded them all. Talking to my social worker was futile because she’d already proven to me that she was on Mrs. DeRosier’s side, and the same thing went for the teachers at school.

  It was when I went into Grade 10 that an opportunity presented itself to do something about the DeRosiers, though I didn’t recognize it as such. Since I never saw Jennifer over the summer months, Cheryl and I hadn’t written to each other. Then Jennifer came to me with a letter from Cheryl in September. I expected her to walk away, but she stayed and finally talked to me.

  “April, about last year ... I guess I should have told you what was going on when I first heard about it. But there are these sayings, you know, about being judged by the company you keep. Well, I didn’t want to get the same hassles you were getting. I’m chicken. I couldn’t take that kind of thing.”

  I looked at her and said, “Did you believe any of that?”

  “No. I knew you. I knew you wouldn’t do anything like what they said. I’d like for us to be friends again.”

  “I’d like that, too,” I said, gratefully.

  In October, Mrs. Gauthier, our English teacher, told us that the Southern Journal was holding a competition for Christmas stories and we’d have two weeks in which to submit entries. At lunchtime, Jennifer and I talked about the competition. English was my strongest subject, and compositions were easy for me. It was mostly just a matter of choosing a topic that would attract attention.

  “Why don’t you write about your life with the DeRosiers?” Jennifer asked with a grin.

  I thought it was a great idea. But then I said, “It has to be a Christmas story, and they have a way of destroying Christmas for me.”

  For a week I pondered over how I could work my life at the DeRosiers into a Christmas story. Finally, the idea came to me, and I worked on my story at lunchtimes. The title was “What I Want For Christmas,” and I ended the story with the sentence, “What I want for Christmas is for somebody to listen to me and to believe me.” I handed it in to Mrs. Gauthier.

  The next day, Mrs. Gauthier asked me to stay at lunch. I waited and was surprised when Mrs. Wartzman came into the room with my story in her hand. Mrs. Wartzman said to me, “This is an incredible story, April. Is this really what’s been going on?”

  I nodded, unable to speak because that lump in my throat was back. I was sure they were going to throw my story in the garbage after giving me a good scolding. Maybe they would even show it to Mrs. DeRosier. Mrs. Gauthier’s next words gave me hope. “I believe the story. I’ve heard the rumours about April, and she’s never done anything to indicate that they were true. She’s a very good student.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she is. I’ve checked with Cheryl’s former Grade 5 teacher, and she confirmed what you wrote, April. I can’t believe that social workers would place children in this kind of home.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell your worker or one of us?” Mrs. Gauthier asked.

  “We tried. We tried to tell our workers but they would only believe what Mrs. DeRosier told them. And when you said those things to me last year ...” I looked at Mrs. Wartzman.

  “I owe you an apology, April. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions,” Mrs. Wartzman said.

  It was decided that my story would not be entered in the competition, and they urged me to write another one in its place. From what I understood, Mrs. Wartzman was going to call my social worker herself. That was good enough for me.

  I waited impatiently, and in November 1963, something happened in the United States, which made me forget my impatience temporarily. The president of the United States, John F. Kennedy, was shot. I was just coming back from lunch when I heard the news. The whole class was subdued, and I was shocked. Cheryl and I had talked about him a few times. She admired him for many reasons. In the weeks that followed, I saved clippings from the newspaper about his funeral and his family. I wasn’t allowed to watch television, so I missed an awful lot, including the death of Kennedy’s killer, Lee Harvey Oswald. I planned to give my clippings to Cheryl. We were supposed to have a visit, but for some reason it was put off.

  I returned to my impatient waiting. Had the wheels been set in motion, or was nothing going to come of my story after all? Christmas passed and then it was 1964. The only consolation I had until then was that two grown-ups were aware of my predicament. Then, in January, I got a letter from Cheryl.

  January 16, 1964

  Dear April,

  How are you? I got your letter, and obviously you didn’t know you missed a visit with me. I waited at the Children’s Aid office all afternoon December 23rd, then Miss Turner came and told me that Mrs. DeRosier called to say she wasn’t able to make it to town because she’d gotten stuck. Did you know about that? Anyways, I’m glad you’ve gotten through to your teachers. Have you heard anything further? We are getting a new social worker, did you know that? I sure hope she’s going to be good for us.

  Wasn’t it terrible about President Kennedy being assassinated? I wanted to see you so much to talk about it. I cried that night when I was alone. I read a lot of history. All the Kennedys are so interesting and young and vital. I used to collect items on them. I’m sure that Robert Kennedy will get in as president, though. I hope he keeps the same speech writers. Kennedy’s speeches were really good.

  Anyways, I’ve enclosed my historical piece on Riel at the Red River Insurrection. You ought to see this load of crap we have to take in history. I don’t know if you took the same textbook. It’s Canada: The New Nation. It makes me mad the way they portray Native people. It makes me wish those white men had never come here. But then we would not have been born. At least the Indians would have been left in peace. Nothing those tribes ever did to each other matches what the whites have done to them. Whoa, there, Cheryl. You probably don’t agree with me, do you, April? But history should be an unbiased representation of the facts. And if they show one side, they ought to show the other side equally. Anyways, that’s why I’m writing the Métis side of things. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but it makes me feel good.

  Well, I hope you like my essay. I’ll sign off for now. Let me know what happens. Sure is taking a long time.

  Love,

  Cheryl

  When I finished reading her letter, I felt awful about the fact I had missed a visit and had not even known about it. Did Mrs. DeRosier do that because she knew about my own essay? All of a sudden I felt scared. She did know. She had put a stop to everything. I was going to be stuck here until ... until when? It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

  To preoccupy my mind, I read Cheryl’s essay on Riel and the Red River Insurrection. But reading her essay didn’t help. Knowing the other side, the Métis side, didn’t make me feel any better. It just reinforced my belief that if I could assimilate myself into white society, I wouldn’t have to live like this for the rest of my life.

  That afternoon, I didn’t pay much attention to classwork. My mind was on my present problem. I now believed Mrs. DeRosier knew about my essay. I felt I had been betrayed. What could I do about it? I could think of only one thing. Come summer, I’d take off. But then, I had wanted to finish school so bad. I wanted to be able to get a good job. I wanted to be rich. Oh, to heck with being rich. I’d run away anyway. Maybe to some other city so they wouldn’t find me. I’d lie about my age if I had to, and I’d get a job. For the moment, being free was more important than anything else in the world.

  That night I lay in bed, still thinking about my soon-to-be future. Another problem came up. I had no money at all to even start out. I’d have to get some. But how? Steal it? I’d been accused of stealing already, so why not? That would be justice of a sort. Oh, sure, April, and when you run out of money in the city, you can just sell your body. And what else do Native girls do? By now, I knew what skid
row meant. I bet all those girls who ended up on skid row just wanted freedom and peace in the first place. Just like me. I’d had good intentions about my life, but here I was, forced to go out into that world, unprepared and alone, with only a Grade 10 education, and no money. No matter, I’d still run away. I felt so, so sorry for myself and for what I’d end up becoming. I started to cry. My life would be hard. But staying here would be harder. I felt I had no choice.

  My running-away plans were discarded when rescue did come at the beginning of our spring break. It came in the form of Mr. Wendell, my new social worker. When I saw him enter the house and introduce himself, I was downright disappointed. He was a short little man, balding with glasses, and a meek demeanour. Really! He was no match for Mrs. DeRosier. I studied him as he exchanged preliminaries with the old hag. Suddenly, he said, “I’d like to see where the boys slept.”

  “The boys?” Mrs. DeRosier asked. I could tell she was flustered by his unexpected question, and I was glad she was off balance. But the thought that she was going to get more boys must have hit her the same time it hit me. She recovered, and my face grew long.

  “Oh, yes, Raymond and Gilbert. How are they doing now that they’re on their own? I hope they’re not getting into any trouble. They were such good boys when they were with us. And such hard workers. You couldn’t get any better workers. I believe that hard work is good for the soul, don’t you?”

  I thought to myself, “So that’s why she doesn’t make her kids work; they have no souls.” Mrs. DeRosier led the way into the living room towards the stairs, saying, “They used to share my son’s room. We’ve moved their bunks into the storage closet for now.”

  When we were upstairs, Mr. Wendell had a look but didn’t say anything. He asked where my room was. Mrs. DeRosier took him down the hall to Maggie’s room. I followed them everywhere, and when she could, Mrs. DeRosier scowled at me as if trying to tell me to get back downstairs.

  “I can only see one bed, Mrs. DeRosier. I understand you have a daughter. Isn’t this her room?” Mr. Wendell said.

  “The girls share it. The other bed was old, so I’ve ordered a new one. It should have been here by now.” She smiled at him.

  This was my chance to prove what a liar Mrs. DeRosier was. I said, “My bedroom’s really downstairs, at the back.”

  Mrs. DeRosier said quickly, “Well, the girls have been having trouble, so I moved April there, but only temporarily.” She glared at me when Mr. Wendell turned to start back down.

  “I’ve been in that back room since I first came here. And so was Cheryl,” I said. I was beyond caring about the later consequences.

  “How about if you show me where your room is, April?” Mr. Wendell said to me. Mrs. DeRosier said nothing when Mr. Wendell looked at my belongings.

  “Well, Mrs. DeRosier, I think that, under the circumstances, I can only recommend that April be moved as soon as we find a new foster home for her.” He was about to say more, but Mrs. DeRosier cut him off.

  “And I think you can take her and get out of my house right now,” she bellowed.

  “Mrs. Semple has had a very heavy caseload; otherwise, I’m sure you wouldn’t have been able to fool her for so long,” Mr. Wendell said to her.

  He told me to get my things ready. When we started for the car, Rebel came to me. I stopped to pet him one last time. “Poor old Reb. I wish I could take you with me. Thank you for being my friend here. Bye, Rebel.” Rebel wagged his tail. As we drove off, I saw him lie down by the roadside, probably to wait for me to come back.

  7

  When we arrived at the Children’s Aid office, arrangements were quickly made for me to attend St. Bernadette’s Academy once their spring break ended. I spent that whole morning in the waiting area, not quite sure I wasn’t dreaming all this. I would actually be going to an Academy! Rich girls went to Academies. When Mr. Wendell came back late in the afternoon, he brought back news that topped my excitement. I was going to the Steindalls’ to be with Cheryl until the spring break was over. All of this excitement was inside me. Outwardly, I might have smiled slightly, but I was now used to keeping my feelings to myself.

  When we arrived at the Steindalls’ place in Birds Hill, Cheryl was waiting for me on the veranda. When she saw the car pull into the driveway, she bounded off the steps and came running up to greet me. She was practically jumping up and down. I greeted her in a cool, reserved manner, and that put an injured look on her face. At the time, only Cheryl and Mrs. Steindall were home. Her daughter was away in the city for the holidays, visiting an older sister. After Mr. Wendell made sure I was settled in, he left. I had lunch while Cheryl chattered away. Mrs. Steindall seemed nice enough, but she didn’t attempt to join in Cheryl’s questions. Cheryl seemed used to her being quiet because she wasn’t the least bit self-conscious about what she said.

  After lunch, she was anxious to show me her horse. “You know what I used to think about doing all the time?” Cheryl asked me, as I admired the horse.

  “What?”

  “I used to think of riding him to the DeRosiers’ and rescuing you from them. But then I probably would have gotten lost, and I couldn’t figure out how to feed and water the horse. Anyways, Mr. Steindall only gave me the horse to ride, not for keeps. If I’d taken him, I’d have been a horse thief.” While I smiled, Cheryl seemed to ponder for a minute before she spoke again. “April, how come you didn’t seem very glad to see me?”

  “I was, Cheryl, really. It’s just that I’m used to keeping the way I feel inside of me. I’ve been doing that for practically five years now. Maybe even longer. I don’t know. It just seems it’s safer not to show your feelings. Like, if the Steindalls were mean people, or even Mr. Wendell, and they saw that we liked being together, they might try and keep us apart. Remember, DeRosier did that.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  After that, Cheryl and I talked every minute that we could in those two weeks, catching up on things we didn’t say in letters. I must have made up for all the laughing I didn’t do while I was living at the DeRosiers’. But, too soon, I had to leave for school.

  I finished my Grade 10 at St. Bernadette’s Academy. When I’d been living with the Dions, I had known nuns and they were okay people, so I was able to relax at the convent. A daily routine was followed. I made friends with a lot of the boarders. I credited my ability to make friends easily to the fact that none of them knew I was part Indian. The only thing was that they spoke of their friends and families back home, and I had no one to speak of, except Cheryl. It wasn’t until June that I came up with an outright lie, an excuse for being with the Children’s Aid. I told my friends that my parents had died in a plane crash. I didn’t plan on that lie: it just came out on the spur of the moment, when I was being asked about my family. They were so sympathetic toward me that I knew I would never be able to take those words back.

  My summer holidays that year were simply wonderful. The Steindalls had agreed to take me for the two months. Mr. Steindall taught me how to ride. Sometimes, we would all go out riding, even Mrs. Steindall, who looked out of place in jeans and cowboy boots. When I became a good-enough rider, Cheryl and I were allowed to go camping overnight by a small creek about four miles away. The first time, Mr. Steindall rode over in the evening and helped us set up the tent.

  One night, when we were sitting in front of our small fire, Cheryl told me the things she had dreamt of when we lived together at the DeRosiers’.

  “Remember how I used to look at your geography book?”

  “Yeah, and daydream.”

  “Well, I used to think that when Mom and Dad got better and took us back, we could move to the B.C. Rockies and live like olden-day Indians. We’d live near a lake, and we’d build our own log cabin and have a big fireplace. And we wouldn’t have electricity, probably. We’d have lots and lots of books. We’d have dogs and horses, and we’d make friends with the wild animals. We’d go fishing and hunting, grow our own garden, and chop our own woo
d for winter. And we wouldn’t meet people who were always trying to put us down. We’d be so happy. Do you think that would ever be possible, April?”

  “It’s a beautiful dream, Cheryl.” She was watching me, and I didn’t want her to know then that I had my own plans. I wanted to be with people, not isolated in the wilderness.

  “But do you think it’s possible that it could happen?”

  “Maybe. Maybe our parents might start coming to see us again. But it all depends on them.” I realized at that moment that I had stopped thinking of our parents as Mom and Dad, and that now it was hard for me to refer to them as Mom and Dad.

  “I wanted to ask our social workers about them, but I was too scared. I don’t know why. I still think about us living out there together. When I’m feeling down, that picks me up. Mom and Dad would become real healthy again. I always think of Dad as a strong man. He would have been a chief or a warrior in the olden days, if he had been pure Indian. I’d sure like to know what kind of Indians we are. And Mom was so beautiful to me; she was like an Indian princess. The only thing that I couldn’t be realistic about in my daydreams was that Rebel would be with us.” Cheryl’s eyes sparkled. I could tell that this fantasy had meant a lot to her. It had probably helped her get over her loneliness. So I didn’t tell her the truth about our parents—but I felt that, by not telling her, I was also betraying her, letting her hang on to impossible dreams. If only Cheryl would forget about them, forget that she was Métis. She was so smart, that she could have made it in the white world. White people have a great respect for high intelligence. Again I wished my parents were dead.

  At the beginning of the summer, I’d told Cheryl how great it was to be at the Academy. But by the end of it, when she started talking about going there too, I changed my tune. I then told her, “You wouldn’t want to leave this place and Fastbuck to go to a Convent, would you? I’m sure you wouldn’t like it there. There are hours and hours of praying in the chapel, and then there’s also the hours of study periods. There’s hardly any sports activities. You’d be bored to death.” I didn’t want Cheryl at the Academy because of the lie I had told about my parents, and because I was white as far as the other girls were concerned. I wanted to keep it that way as long as I could.