In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  The courtroom emptied, and I walked out into the corridor, hoping to find Roger. He was coming toward me from the other end of the hallway. We waited together, not saying anything about the trial. He asked me again about Cheryl.

  “I’d rather not talk about Cheryl right now, Roger. I just hope she’s fine, but I’m worried because she didn’t come home last night. But I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, I’m just waiting to see what the jury decides.”

  It was a little over an hour later when we were summoned back to the courtroom. I was impatient because it took everyone such a long time to get back in their places, especially the judge. I sat there, scarcely breathing, waiting for that one word: Guilty. The jury filed back into the courtroom, and there was more legal footwork as I waited for that word. I looked at a distant point in front of me, not daring to look at the faces of the members of the jury. I heard the foreman of the jury respond affirmatively to the question of whether they had reached a verdict. And then I heard it: “We find the defendant guilty as charged.” I sighed with relief. Justice, to a certain point, had been done.

  15

  Before Roger and I returned to my place, we went out for supper. When we did get home, I looked for signs of Cheryl, but it appeared she hadn’t bothered eating or anything, if she had been home. Cheryl usually piled her coffee cups and dishes in the sink, and there were none. I made coffee, knowing Roger was waiting for me to talk. As we were drinking coffee, I did.

  “Well, you found out what my big secret was. Do you understand why I felt the way I did?”

  “Of course. I don’t know why you didn’t say something, though.”

  “Rape isn’t something you talk about, Roger. I never even discussed it with Cheryl. Cheryl ... she blamed herself, you know. She blamed herself because she was in the hospital and I came to Winnipeg to be with her. It was when I was going to her place that I was raped. That was why she had blamed herself. And then in court, we both found out that those men were after her. It wasn’t just my bad luck; she caused them to be there at that time. She apparently had angered some woman, and that woman wanted her to pay for it. And instead, I paid for it.”

  “How do you feel about Cheryl?”

  “I don’t know. They said she was a prostitute. I can’t resolve how I feel about her. I just don’t know. One minute, I want to hug her and tell her it doesn’t matter. And the next, I just want to give her hell. I feel like her babysitter. As soon as I leave her alone, she goes out and does all these incredibly stupid things. And I always thought she had it all together, more so than me. What is the matter with her?”

  “Maybe you feel that way about her because what you went through is a very traumatic experience.”

  “You’re right. It’s not as if she made me lose all my money. Funny, that doesn’t even seem so important anymore. Once, all I wanted was money, lots of it. And now, what I did lose was much more precious than money. I’ll never be the same as I once was. You know, when I was married, I didn’t want children because I thought they might turn out looking a little bit Native. Lately, now that I can’t have children, I would really like to be able to. Settle down and raise a dozen kids.”

  “Why can’t you have any children?”

  I looked at him. Couldn’t he figure that out? “Because I was raped. I’d be scared to ... to ever let a man get close to me.”

  “And how long are you going to feel that way, April?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll always feel that way.”

  “Do you like feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “I don’t feel sorry for myself,” I said, indignantly. “I just know how I feel inside. I feel dirty and rotten and used. I’ll never be what I was before. I’ll never be the same. Can’t you understand that?”

  “From what I understand, you’re keeping what you feel inside of you alive. You’re not even trying to let go. Now that the trial is over, let it go, April. Let time do its healing. The big tragedy now is not that you’ve been raped. It’s that you refuse to let yourself heal.”

  “You men! You haven’t a clue as to what rape does to a woman. It kills something inside. That’s what it does.”

  I was angry with Roger. Perhaps what he was saying had some truth in it, but I felt he was being very insensitive to my feelings on that day. In my anger, perhaps because of the emotional roller coaster I’d been on, I ordered him to get out of my house. I wanted someone to comfort me, not make me feel that I was wrong in my reaction.

  “I’m sorry, April. Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did, but I really believe you’re going to have to let go of your hatred and resentment sooner or later. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  My anger continued to burn after he left. Who was he to tell me my reactions were wrong? What did he know about rape? I stormed into the bathroom and began to run the water for my ritual bath. Then I realized Roger would think I was just wallowing in my self-pity, so I shut off the tap and stormed back into the kitchen and poured myself another cup of coffee. It was cold, and I slammed the cup back down on the table and sat there, staring at nothing in particular. What could any man ever understand about rape? They just had no comprehension.

  But as I sat there, I began to think about what he had said. It was true that I had come to look forward to those ritual baths. I enjoyed killing those men over and over again in my mind. But, really, who was I hurting by it? I had wanted Roger to comfort me, but maybe what I really wanted was his sympathy, maybe even pity. It was something he hadn’t given me, and I resented it. How was I supposed to just “let go,” as he said? It simply wasn’t possible.

  When I finally tired of waiting for Cheryl, I went to bed, my mind still in a muddle about my feelings. I was still full of hatred, but I was also beginning to realize that probably Roger was right and I should try and let go. The same feelings were with me when I awoke the next morning. I spent the day wandering aimlessly around the house, trying to read a book or watch television. I was making supper when Cheryl walked in.

  “Cheryl, where have you been?”

  “That’s none of your bloody business.”

  I was taken aback by the bluntness of her answer. “Sorry. I was just worried. There’s no need to snap at me.”

  “Oh? You think things should return to normal, do you? Well, good luck! I’ve got to go up and change.” With that, she quickly went upstairs, not giving me a chance to say more.

  I walked back to the kitchen. Then I went back to the foot of the stairs and called up, “Hey, Cheryl, supper’s almost ready. Are you going to come down soon?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she called back.

  While I was washing the dishes, I heard her coming down the stairs. I was glad. Maybe we could talk. But she called, “I’m going out. See you later.”

  “Cheryl, wait—”

  But the front door slammed. It was no use. I could just see myself scurrying down the street, pleading for her to come back so we could talk.

  Roger called a little later and asked if I wanted to go out to a movie or something. I agreed, thinking it would take my mind off Cheryl.

  I didn’t go to court the day Donnelly was sentenced, but I learned on the news that he had been sentenced to five years at Stony Mountain. I wondered if those five years (although he’d probably be out on parole after three) would leave as deep a mark on his life as he had left on mine.

  In the following weeks, Cheryl absolutely refused to talk to me unless it was in little, biting sentences. At first I was patient, but then I started losing my patience with her, and my sympathy. Sometimes I’d come home from a date with Roger and she’d go upstairs, leaving me in mid-sentence. Sometimes she’d come home, drunk. That really upset me. Then she’d say all kinds of nasty things about me that weren’t true or were only half-true. Those things would hurt me the most, and once she saw the hurt in my eyes, she’d seem satisfied and would leave me alone.

  One Saturday afternoon, she came in the front door. She looked in pretty rough
shape: her hair was dishevelled, and her eyes were reddish and dopey looking. She immediately went upstairs, as I expected. But a few minutes later, she came down, carrying one of her whiskey bottles. “Thought I’d keep you company today. I haven’t seen my big sister in such a long time. I’ll watch you clean up the place. It’s like an Indian having a white maid. Well, go ahead; don’t let me stop you. I’ll just go and get me a glass. I can drink this stuff straight, you know. Want to see?” She took a swig from the bottle, then smacked her lips.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Cheryl, but I’ve already done the cleaning. And while you’re getting a glass, get me one, too, will you? There’s Coke in the fridge. I’m not up to drinking whiskey straight.”

  Cheryl looked at me suspiciously. “Oh, I get it: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, eh? And what is poor, sweet Roger going to think?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Once, I told you that we were going to make it. Well, if you’re not going to try, then why should I?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t lay that crap on me, big sister. You turned your back on me a long time ago. You think I don’t know why you married Bob? It was to get away from me; that’s why. I’ll bet you wished you were an only child. I bet you wished I was dead.”

  “You know that’s not true!”

  “And now you’re back here, right in there with another white man. Half-breeds aren’t good enough for you. You’re a bigot against your own people. You want to know something else, April? I’m ashamed of you. Yeah, ashamed. You’re not my sister, you’re my keeper: buying this house, paying for my keep. That’s all you are, just my keeper. You’re disgusting. And you have the nerve to look down on me?”

  “I’ve never looked down on you, Cheryl. Never. Just on what you do. What you’re doing to yourself. I don’t understand why.”

  “Don’t give me that bull. You heard what they said in court, and I saw what you felt when you avoided looking me in the eye. You think you’re better than me. You’ve always thought you were better than me. And you’ll never understand me. You’ll never understand me.” Cheryl repeated the last line more to herself than to me. Then in a louder, more aggressive tone, she said, “You know, April, you sure have lied to me a lot. You tell me one thing when you know it’s a bloody lie. It’s pretty bad in this stinking world when you can’t even trust your own sister.”

  Cheryl never did pour me a drink. She went back upstairs, I assumed to sleep it off. I felt as if I had been in a physical fight with her. I was breathing hard. It was unreasonable of Cheryl to accuse me of all those things. She wasn’t faultless. So why, why, why, did she tear into me all the time? I thought of Alcoholics Anonymous. Cheryl would never go there, not in a hundred years. Cheryl was an out-and-out drunkard. In the previous several months, I hadn’t seen her sober, because when she was sober, she avoided me like I was the plague.

  In December, Roger invited me to go to Killarney with him to meet his parents. They lived on a farm, and Roger went out to visit them as often as he could. I felt I couldn’t leave Cheryl alone, and Roger said I was to invite her, too. I knew Cheryl wouldn’t go, and in the end, Roger decided he would remain in the city for Christmas and spend it with me. I protested, of course, but he remained firm in his decision.

  We waited most of Christmas Day for Cheryl to return so we could open our presents together. Cheryl didn’t come. I was embarrassed. Roger had forsaken Christmas with his family to be with Cheryl and me. I had forsaken a Christmas with his family for Cheryl. And Cheryl didn’t even do us the courtesy of staying home.

  We spent New Year’s with his parents. I also met his brother, Joe, who wasn’t Indian at all. When we were by ourselves, I said, “You lied to me, Roger Maddison. You said your brother Joe was Ojibway.”

  “Well, I figured that would help you open up a little,” Roger grinned. “I thought it would make you feel like we had something in common. Actually, the guy I was talking about was a good friend in school.”

  “My, my, you don’t have any scruples, do you? And here I was going to ask if Cheryl could meet Joe and, you know, maybe get together.” I squeezed his arm and shook it, pretending anger. It was the first time I had voluntarily touched him.

  It was almost a full year after the rape. Roger had succeeded in making me feel good about myself again. I’d have moments when I’d remember, but they weren’t all-consuming. It would take a long time before I would heal completely. But Roger was right. Time was the best medicine.

  Still, I couldn’t get through to Cheryl. There was no communication between us.

  I had resumed my temp work. One day at the end of February, I didn’t have anywhere to go. I sat around for most of the day, bored. Late in the afternoon, I decided to do some baking. It was already dark by the time I put the muffins in the oven. That’s when Cheryl came home. I heard her as she came down the hall and into the kitchen. She still had her jacket on, but she took it off and placed it over the seat behind her.

  “Aren’t we domestic today,” she said in sneering voice. “Practising up, are you?”

  “No, I just thought it would be nice to have some home baking. It’s a little early, but do you want supper?”

  “If I wanted something to eat, I’d fix it myself. After all, I do live here, don’t I?” Cheryl said.

  “Well, excuse me, I was just offering.”

  Cheryl got up and went upstairs. I figured tonight if she wanted to grind away at me, I was going to give her some of her own medicine. Sure enough, a few minutes later, she came downstairs again with a full bottle of whiskey. She set it on the counter, got herself a glass, and poured in some Coke and whiskey. It was about half and half.

  I watched her do all this and then I said, “Is this private property, or can I have some too?”

  “Go ahead, help yourself. Don’t expect me to serve you.” She went back to sit at the dining room table.

  I decided to join her with my drink.

  “So, are the three of us going to have a nice, cozy little chat?” Cheryl asked, looking at me. Her eyes were glassy, and she had to focus to look straight at me.

  “What do you mean, the three of us?” I said, looking at her stomach area, avoiding her eyes.

  Cheryl laughed and said, “You, me, and my good friend there,” she said, pointing back at the bottle of whiskey. “He’s going to keep us company. Yes, sir, the family that drinks together, stays together.” Cheryl laughed again.

  “Well, do take off your boots and stay awhile,” I said, sarcastically. I had washed and waxed the floor the day before, and I noticed then that Cheryl had tracked watery marks on it. Cheryl ignored me and took a long sip of her drink.

  “Cheryl, I wish you’d tell me what’s been bugging you these past months. Ever since that day in court, you’ve been treating me as if I’d done something wrong.”

  Cheryl looked at me but didn’t say anything.

  “I wish we could get everything out in the open. I wish there were no secrets between us. I want to help you, Cheryl; that’s all I want to do. Put that away for tonight. Go to bed and tomorrow we can have a really frank discussion, okay?”

  “Quit it, April. All you ever do is nag at me. Nag, nag, nag. Is that how you drove Bob away? And how long is this new one going to last, eh? How long is Roger going to last before you try to run his life? Ex-Mrs. Radcliff. Socialite of the East. Big shot. You’re such a phony. Couldn’t manage her own life, but she wants to manage mine.” Cheryl finished her drink and got up to pour herself another one. She brought the bottle with her and set it down beside her glass.

  I sighed and said, “Cheryl, don’t.”

  Cheryl cut me off and mimicked my plea,“Cheryl, don’t. Cheryl, don’t. Don’t do this, don’t do that. You’re only hurting yourself. Poor, dear Cheryl. Well, I know damn well what I’m hurting. Because of me you don’t bring any of your white friends here, do you? And with Roger, you had to explain all about your poor, drunken sister, didn’t you? So he would understand about me. And pity me. Same
way you pity me. Well, I don’t need your goddamned pity.”

  I studied Cheryl. This was far worse than it had ever been before. I didn’t know what to do. Should I try to appease her, or provoke her into talking to me about what was making her say these things?

  “You’re ashamed of me,” she continued. “You’re ashamed of what I do. If you were ever proud of me, you’d be proud to be a half-breed. Proud, I tell you.” Cheryl glared at me, daring me to say differently. She was swaying from side to side as she again refilled her glass.

  I said in a quiet voice, “Go look in the mirror and tell me what I’ve got to be proud of.”

  “Oh, so the truth comes out. As long as I act like a proper whitey, I’m something, eh? But a few drinks and I’m a stinking, drunken Indian.”

  “You’re doing all this to hurt me, right? Why? Do you hate me, Cheryl?”

  “Hate you? No, I don’t hate you. I hate a lot of things about you. You’re a snob. You have double standards. You were so shocked when they said I was a hooker. Well, look at you. How did you buy this house, April? How did you buy that car out there? How, April? You prostituted yourself when you took Bob’s money; that’s how. You never loved that man. You loved his money. You figured you were going to be Miss High Society. But you figured wrong. But you still came out of it with your pay. A nice, big, fat roll for a high-class call girl. Yeah, your kind makes me sick. Big white snobs who think they’re the superior race. Your white governments, your white churches, sitting back in idle, rich comfort, preaching what ought to be, but making sure it isn’t. Well, Miss Know-It-All, I know something you don’t. And you won’t feel so goddamned superior once I tell you what I know.”

  Cheryl put her finger across her lips as if to warn herself to keep silent. “Shh, I’m not supposed to tell her,” she said to herself. She smiled a silly, secretive smile, then frowned to herself, questioningly. It looked as if she were wondering why she had to keep this secret.

  I was waiting, hoping she would continue. I felt that what she was on the verge of saying would help solve the mystery of what had made her give up on everything. I felt it wasn’t just that she blamed herself for the rape. Something had happened before that. She had started drinking before that. Maybe it was something I had done. Whatever it was, I wanted to know. To goad her into more angry outbursts, I said in a cold voice, “Cheryl, you’ve had enough. Come on, I’ll help you to bed.” I got up and put my hands on her arm to help her.