In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  On Thursday, Roger phoned in the morning to ask if Cheryl and I would like to have dinner at his place Friday evening. I told Cheryl about it, excited that he really had called.

  “I really didn’t think he’d call me, at least not this soon.”

  “Isn’t this the same guy whose guts you used to hate when you worked at the law firm?”

  “The same one. Oh, you’re not going to tell him that tomorrow night?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not even going to be there tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, you have to.”

  “Oh, but I don’t. He really wants you there. I’ve got things to do. Besides, you don’t need me to hold your hand.” I tried to change her mind, but she wouldn’t budge.

  Friday evening started out with both Roger and me trying to make polite conversation. I guess he was as uncomfortable as I was. After the meal, I was sipping coffee when I asked him, “Roger, how come you were so nasty to me when I worked there?”

  “I liked you,” he smiled.

  “Well, that was no way to treat someone you liked.”

  “Well, I got your attention, didn’t I? Until that man came along.”

  “I did like you, you know,” I said. “I hated you, too. I hated liking you. Of course, if I had known you liked me, then maybe things would have been different.”

  “Well, that’s what I get for taking my time. So, why didn’t Cheryl come tonight? Has she no faith in a man’s cooking?”

  “No, she just figured we ought to be alone, I guess. It was a very good meal. Where did you learn to cook?”

  “I’ve been a bachelor for a long time. You were telling me about your marriage. Care to tell me about why the divorce?”

  “Well, I divorced Bob on grounds of adultery. But now when I think about it, that’s not what bothered me most. My mother-in-law, she was some lady. She didn’t want to be grandmother to a ‘bunch of little half-breeds’ as she put it.”

  “Why would she say a thing like that? You’re not Indian, are you?”

  “No. I’m ... a Métis.” I had to force those words out.

  “And from the way you say that, I gather you’re not too proud of it.” Roger had a hint of an understanding smile on his face, but his eyes were serious.

  “I’m not. It would be better to be a full-blooded Indian or a full-blooded Caucasian. But being a half-breed, well, there’s just nothing there. You can admire Indian people for what they once were. They had a distinct heritage, or is it culture? Anyway, you can see how much was taken from them. And white people, well, they’ve convinced each other they are the superior race, and you can see they are responsible for the progress we have today. Cheryl once said, ‘The meek shall inherit the Earth ... big deal, because who’s going to want it once the whites are through with it?’ So the progress is questionable. Even so, what was a luxury yesterday is a necessity today, and I enjoy all the necessities. But what have the Métis people got? Nothing. Being a half-breed, you feel only the shortcomings of both sides. You feel you’re a part of the drunken Indians you see on Main Street. And if you inherit brown skin, like Cheryl did, you identify with the Indian people more. In today’s society, there isn’t anything positive about them that I’ve seen. And when people say offhandedly, ‘Oh, you shouldn’t be ashamed of being Métis,’ well, generally they haven’t a clue as to what it’s like being a Native person.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I meant the words; I didn’t mean for them to come out all at once.” I was really embarrassed. I had held in those words for such a long time, and then I had laid them on Roger, of all people.

  “Well, believe it or not, I understand. There will always be some form of discrimination, whether it is someone discriminating against an Indian on Main Street, or your church telling you that you have to teach your children its belief system because it’s the only right one. I’ve got a brother, an adopted brother, who’s Ojibway. Joe thinks it’s not important what others think of him. It’s what he thinks of himself that counts.”

  I stared at him, wondering if he really did have an Ojibway brother or if he was only patronizing me. He seemed serious, so I continued confiding in him. “Well, Cheryl lives pretty much by that philosophy, and even so, she’s come down with a drinking problem, I think. I’m not really sure. Anyway, only she has the right to tell me I ought to be proud of what I am, because she’s worked so hard to do something about the Native image.”

  “Your sister sounds remarkable. Maybe the‘something’ that is bothering her, could be that she’s impatient to see the changes.”

  “I think my being back in Winnipeg will help a lot. It’s funny; you’re the last person I thought I’d be able to talk to about these things. Thanks for listening.”

  “I found it interesting. I find you interesting. I’m not going to tell you to be proud of what you are. Just don’t be so ashamed.”

  13

  On March 1st, Cheryl and I moved into our very own home. By March 2nd, most of our furniture and appliances had been delivered. The following Saturday, I gave a housewarming party, but only Roger came. Cheryl refused to invite Nancy or any of her other friends.

  Next, Cheryl and I went looking for a car. It was wonderful to have money to be able to pay cash for a car. The salesman really catered to us, even offered us a two-car deal. But Cheryl absolutely refused my offer to buy her her own car. I really wanted a big, expensive, luxury car, but because of Cheryl, I bought a little Datsun, which I never did like very much, not after the Radcliff automobiles. Cheryl asked me again in that accusing manner just how much money I did have. I counter attacked by saying, enough to send her back to finish her university courses if she liked, adding that was about it. Of course, I had no idea how much that would have cost. But it was convincing and made Cheryl change the subject. She insisted she had no intention of being a social worker.

  It was the middle of March, and I was half watching the evening news as usual, when a news story came on that made me sit up and take notice. Actually, it was a picture of a man who’d been shot to death by the police earlier that afternoon. It had something to do with a bank robbery, although I wasn’t sure, because I had also been reading the newspaper. If I hadn’t glanced up at that moment, I wouldn’t have seen the picture of one of the men who had raped me. It wasn’t the leader, and it wasn’t Stephen Gurnan. It was the one who had helped grab me and had sat beside the driver. I was positive. My heart was beating fast, and I paced back and forth in the living room, wondering if I should wait for the late news to come on again, or whether I should call the police immediately. Since I was positive, I called the police right away.

  I was told someone would be sent down to see me, so while I waited, I thought things over. If only it had been the leader. Maybe the leader had been with him. Maybe they’ve got the leader in custody. I looked through the paper again, but the story wasn’t there yet. I was sure that if they had arrested the other man, I would be asked to go down to police headquarters to identify him. I was sure that those two would hang around together.

  Then I hoped Cheryl wouldn’t return while the police were there. I had never talked about the rape to her in detail because she had initially blamed herself. So far, I hadn’t even told her about Stephen Gurnan. For that matter, she had never told me what questions the police had asked her. I had wished those men dead, and now that one was dead, I was glad. But it should have been the other one.

  Almost two-and-a-half hours passed before two officers showed up. They had brought some pictures for me to look at, and I picked out the dead man immediately. They asked if the other rapist was among any of the other pictures, but he wasn’t. None even looked like the third man.

  On March 23rd, I got a call from the police asking if I could come down to the Public Safety Building immediately. It was in the afternoon, and Cheryl was out job-hunting. There could only be one reason why they’d want me there: they must have arrested the third man. After I got there, I had to wait for at least forty-five m
inutes. Then, there in the lineup was the leader. He looked arrogant and unafraid. He looked evil. It gave me great pleasure to be able to pick him out so easily, without any fear of being mistaken. At the same time, that cold chill came over me again. From the minute I saw him, I began to tremble, just as I had that night. Not being able to control myself scared me. I really feared the possibility of losing my mind, going crazy. In that way, rape was a double assault. Rapists abused their victims both physically and mentally. Some victims’ minds really did snap after a brutal sexual assault. Maybe it had something to do with what I had tried during the assault: separate my mind from my body. I didn’t know; I wasn’t a psychologist. I just knew how I felt. I was driven home in a police car and I was grateful for that. To be out alone, especially in the dark, was just too terrifying for me.

  Cheryl hadn’t yet returned, so I again went through my ritual of trying to exorcise the evil within me, by bathing. I poured half a bottle of perfumed oil into the hot water and then spent the next hour scrubbing vigorously. When the water got cold, I just added more hot water. All the while, I thought of the rapists laughing crazily, pawing at me, coming down on me, putting their smell on me, putting their dirt on me. And no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get rid of the smell of their awful, slimy bodies, the awful memories. I wanted to scream aloud, that long silent scream I’d kept in my head that night. I wanted them to feel my anguish. I wanted to gouge their eyes out. I wanted to whip the life out of them. Mutilate them. Kill them. Because bathing never worked.

  I always got worked up like that whenever I would take a bath, although it had never been with such intensity before. Back in the bedroom, I paced the floor back and forth, cursing Fate for having placed them on Elgin Street that night, cursing the judicial system because those two, if they went to jail, would get out to rape again. When I had cooled down somewhat, I began wondering for the hundredth time why they had kept on calling me squaw. Was it obvious? That really puzzled me. Except for my long black hair, I really didn’t think I could be mistaken as a Native person. Mistaken? There’s that shame again. Okay, identified.

  When Cheryl got home, I hadn’t even started supper yet. We decided to order pizza and have it delivered. Cheryl had news that she was quite sure she was going to be hired at a downtown factory where she had put in an application that afternoon. She had to phone back the following Monday. I asked her what she would be doing, because I couldn’t see her working on an assembly line. She said she’d be doing a lot of different things, but wouldn’t specify. What a waste, I thought to myself.

  That started me thinking of opening our own business, maybe a fashion boutique, like the ones I used to visit on Yonge Street and in the Yorkville area of Toronto. From my shopping experiences with Mrs. Radcliff, I’d learned a lot (and could have learned more, had I paid more attention). But Cheryl was what discouraged me. I knew she would insist on drawing in Native women, which would drive others away. Moreover, Cheryl’s heart wouldn’t be in it. She dressed well enough for one of her crowd, but that certainly wasn’t the world of high fashion. In the end, I thought it would be best not to mention it.

  For the time being, I decided that I would go back to temporary secretarial work because I didn’t want to be tied to a job until the whole rape trial ordeal was over.

  In April, Roger, Cheryl, and I went out to celebrate my birthday. It was only rarely we did anything together. Cheryl still hadn’t brought a single friend over to our place. She went out a great deal. She would come home from work, have supper, change, and go out again. I spent more and more time with Roger.

  In May, I was cleaning the house on a Friday because I didn’t have a job for that day. It was when I was collecting the garbage from Cheryl’s room that I came across an empty whisky bottle in her garbage container. I was so shocked to see it, the implication of it rushing into my head. Cheryl wouldn’t do that: sneak drinks. So why the bottle? I tried to think of a number of reasons why she’d have a bottle in her room. I had never seen her even slightly drunk. Of course, we hadn’t seen much of each other over the past few months. I decided I was making too much of it. We were getting along all right, and I didn’t want to change that. Cheryl never did say anything to me, although she must have realized I had found the empty bottle when I had done the cleaning.

  A few weeks after this, I spotted a promotional piece in the newspaper about an Indian powwow to be held on the July 1st long weekend at Roseau River. It would be good if Cheryl and I attended the festival, I thought. Especially good for Cheryl. Perhaps it would renew an interest in her Native cause.

  That evening, as soon as Cheryl came home from work, I asked, “Hey, Cheryl, what’s an Indian powwow?”

  “Oh, it’s mostly a dancing competition among different tribes who come from all over the place.”

  “Are they interesting?”

  “Oh sure, I’ve been to several of them. I like going to them.”

  “Well, there’s going to be one in Roseau on the July 1st weekend. I’d like to go to it and see what it’s like. How about it? We could buy some camping stuff and make like we were teenagers again. Remember?”

  “You really want to go?”

  “Yeah, I said I did, didn’t I?”

  “Okay, I’m glad you want to go. You’ll finally rub shoulders with real Indians,” Cheryl said, and I wasn’t sure if she was happy or just being sarcastic.

  I was quite anxious to go, and then I thought of Roger’s brother, Joe. Funny that so many Indian boys were called Joe. Probably Catholic mothers naming their sons after Joseph, the foster father of Jesus. I wondered if Joe was married. Roger hadn’t said. I thought maybe I should invite Roger to bring his brother and join us for the powwow. I’d have to ask him.

  I never did ask him, though. I had supper at his place not long after, and I was wondering about how to broach the subject, but Roger picked that night to decide it was high time we showed our affection for each other. During the past weeks of being together, I had subtly dissuaded him from giving me even a simple goodnight kiss. As far as I knew, Roger was most likely seeing other women, which was fine with me. Men, to my knowledge, did not tend to be celibate for long periods. And Roger and I were just good friends. But on this particular night, he kept getting uncomfortably close. At one point, I went over to look out the window, but he followed me. He made me turn to face him and was about to kiss me.

  “Don’t touch me,” I heard myself say in a cold, icy voice that stopped him dead. He looked at me for a long time before he released me. “I’m sorry. I wanted for us to be just good friends, that’s all, just good friends,” I said in a whispery voice.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to rape you, April. I can’t figure you out. I thought we had more than just a friendship going for us.” His voice was neutral, and I couldn’t tell whether he was angry or hurt. After that, he served me coffee, but our conversation was stifled. He saw me out to my car, but this time he didn’t say he would call me. He just said goodnight.

  I had an appointment on June 1st to see the Crown attorney, Mr. Scott. I had already received a subpoena from an RCMP officer for the preliminary hearing. Mr. Scott’s office was in the basement of the Legislative Building. The police had ex-plained some of the general court procedures, but Mr. Scott explained things in more detail. For instance, as we went over my statement, he told me I was allowed to say things like “I smelled liquor on his breath,” but not “he was drunk.” It had to do with hearsay evidence. One could testify to what was directly known. Anyways, it was quite complicated to me, and I worried about messing up my testimony. I also worried about the defence counsel misconstruing whatever I would say.

  On the day of the hearing, I went early to Mr. Scott’s office to meet with him before travelling to the Town of Stonewall where the judicial process would be carried out. On the drive, I reread my statement, which Mr. Scott had handed me. He reminded me of a few things, and before I knew it, we were at the Community Hall in Stonewall. Mr. Scott showe
d me to a small room where I was to wait for my turn to testify. By lunchtime, I still hadn’t been called, and I was both bored and apprehensive.

  After lunch, I went over my statement again, although I loathed going over those words that told the story of that night. I was finally called to give my testimony and I started shaking as soon as I heard my name. My stomach had been tied up in knots all day, but it tightened up even more by the time I was in the witness stand.

  Mr. Scott asked me to recount the events of January 11, 1972. I did, but minimized the dirty details as much as I could. On occasion he’d have me go into some of those details, like the rape itself. I couldn’t just say I had been raped; I had to describe the act itself. I tried at all times to look only at his eyes, or his lips as they moved, pretending I was talking only to him and that no one else was there.

  Of course, I could feel everyone’s eyes burning into me. I knew darn well there were others in that room, listening to what I was saying. When that thought would overwhelm me, my voice would fade out and the court stenographer would ask me to repeat myself. I wondered what those other people were thinking. It wasn’t just a simple matter that a horrible degradation had happened to me. The thing was, I had been part of it. I’m sure that’s what they all thought: that, even if unwillingly, I had been part of that depraved sexual activity. I had known in advance that I would have to use explicit words when referring to private parts of the anatomy, and I had come across those words, as well as the slang words, in the past, but to me, to say them out loud, in front of all those people, well, I faltered every time I had to say them. In the future I would better understand why some women chose not to seek justice in the courtrooms.