In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  “Why doesn’t he put his flashers and siren on, for crying out loud?” I said impatiently as we stopped at a red light on Main Street. My eyes were still combing the sidewalks. Maybe she had stopped for a drink someplace. Maybe she had gone back home. Maybe her goodbye to Nancy meant she was going to move back home. Oh, I’d give her such a big hug if that’s what she had done.

  Finally, we reached the Louise Bridge. I could see some figures on the bridge waving at the police car. Roger parked behind the cruiser. I jumped out into the rain, which was now coming down in torrents, and ran to where the police officer was talking to the two people on the bridge.

  “... not five minutes ago,” one of them was saying. “She just stood up on the railing, I tell you, and jumped off. Ask Stan here. He was with me. We both saw it. We tried to stop it, officer. We slammed on the brakes, but we couldn’t get there in time. Christ, one minute she was standing there, balancing, and the next, nothing. Why would she want to do a thing like that? Those Indians are always killing themselves. If they aren’t shooting each other on the reserves, it’s this. Holy jumpin’ Jesus Christ. What a night this has been. And now this. I tell you, it’s unbelievable.”

  I was looking down at the waters, looking for a body. It was too dark to see anything, too murky. The man’s words rang in my ears.

  “She was my sister,” I said. What did he know? Someday, maybe, I could explain to people like him why she and others like her did it. Roger had placed his arm around me. The man mumbled an apology, said he didn’t know. I was crying. My tears were mixed with the rain, and they dropped down to where Cheryl was, in that murky water I had once loved to watch. Now I watched, hoping that Cheryl was somewhere down there, alive. But I knew there was no hope. Not for Cheryl. Not anymore. I ached inside. I wanted to let loose with my tears. I felt like sobbing, screaming, wailing. But I just stood there, using the railing for support. Hiding the agony I felt. The agony of being too late, always too late.

  After answering some questions for the police officer, Roger and I drove back to Nancy’s house. When she opened the door, she saw right away from my expression that the worst had happened. She burst into tears. Her mother walked over and hugged her. Then she came over to me, a complete stranger, and also gave me a comforting hug.

  Roger quickly and briefly explained what had happened. While Nancy’s mother busied herself making tea, she said, “Cheryl was like a daughter, you know? She was such a good person. She helped Nancy, you know.”

  “Yeah, whenever I needed help, she was there.” Nancy started sobbing again, but between sobs she continued. “Sometimes, when we needed money, Cheryl would give it to us. She never made us feel like we owed her, you know? When I would get depressed, Cheryl would cheer me up, make me laugh.”

  “Cheryl would buy groceries,” Nancy’s mother said, “and she would always joke that they ate them all up.”

  Nancy and her mother exchanged looks.

  Then Nancy said, “I’m not the only one Cheryl helped. She did a lot for other girls, too. Especially at the Centre. She had these big plans, you know. And she used to organize lots of things at the Centre for young people. Then she quit. She changed real sudden, but I never knew why. Oh, she’d still help people, but she wouldn’t go out of her way anymore. And then she met that creep, and he moved in with us, so I moved back home ’cause Dad left.”

  I appreciated them comforting me. I sat in silence because I could think of nothing to say to comfort them in return. We sat in silence for a while before Nancy’s mother said, “Well, enough for tonight. You’re probably tired. You go home and get yourself some sleep.”

  “Thanks for coming back to tell us about Cheryl.” Nancy came over to where I was standing and hugged me. Then she said, “Cheryl left some things for us to take care of. Like the typewriter you sent for one of her birthdays. She didn’t want Mark selling it on her. And the other is—well, you come back when you’re feeling better. Tonight is not the right time. You will come back?”

  It seemed very important to Nancy that I return, so I promised I would.

  When we were back in the car, I said to Roger,“Imagine that; they’re so poor and yet they kept that typewriter for Cheryl all that time, when they could have sold it. And the way they talked about her, like they really did love her. They give out such a family feeling. Cheryl must have liked that a lot. No wonder she felt more at home with them than she did with me.”

  “I think you should come over to my place tonight, all right?”

  “Thank you. Cheryl hasn’t been home for a long time, but somehow the house would feel much more empty tonight.”

  When I finally got to sleep, it was past midnight. I dreamt of Cheryl. I could hear her laughter, but I couldn’t find her. I looked and looked, but all I could hear was Cheryl laughing. When I did find her, she was in some kind of quicksand. I put my arm out to reach her, to help her, but she wouldn’t take my hand. She just kept laughing and sinking down, deeper and deeper. I begged her and begged her to take my hand, and I began crying uncontrollably. When I woke up, I was still crying, and Roger was hugging me. When I had quieted down, I lay my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. A couple of times, the leftover sobs would shake my whole body, and Roger would hold me a little tighter. Gradually, I went back to sleep.

  The next morning, the police called and asked if we could identify the body they had pulled out of the river. When we returned a few hours later, I was in more of a daze than I had been before. It was final. It had been Cheryl.

  Roger was so helpful and supportive in the next few days. I was mostly silent, pondering the why of Cheryl’s death. Once in a while, I would talk about Cheryl to him. Roger helped me with the funeral arrangements. Actually, he did almost everything.

  After some hesitation, I phoned the Steindalls. I had a long talk with Mrs. Steindall, telling her of Cheryl’s death and explaining the absence of our visits. She was very understanding, very sympathetic. That same evening, the night before the funeral, they came to Roger’s place to see me.

  The funeral service was small and simple. Most of the people who came were Indian or Métis. They had heard about Cheryl’s death through Nancy and her mother. They gave me an insight into Cheryl’s past by the glowing remarks they made about her. Again, I wanted to cry for the waste of such a beautiful life. But I didn’t. I remained outwardly emotionless. Nancy asked me again to come over to their place in the near future, and I promised I would.

  When it was all over, and Cheryl was buried, I knew it was time to return to the house, alone. Roger seemed to understand my need and drove me back. He didn’t come in with me. Before he left, he said, “Take as much time as you need, April. Then call me. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Roger, thank you for everything. I love you.”

  Roger smiled, “I love you too, April.”

  17

  I walked into the house, which now seemed so empty, so cold. What do I do now? I could pack all of Cheryl’s things away in a big trunk, even her clothes, and keep them in the house. That way I’d always have a part of her. And being able to touch her belongings would strengthen that feeling.

  I opened the door to Cheryl’s room, and the first thing I noticed was that empty whiskey bottle. I hadn’t really noticed it before when I had gone into her room. But there it stood on Cheryl’s dresser, mocking me. Suddenly, I was filled with a deep hatred of what it had once contained. I grabbed it by the neck, raised it high, and smashed it down against the edge of the dresser. Again and again, I brought it down, until it was smashed into a million pieces. I was screaming, “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

  My tears came flooding out, and I continued screaming, “I hate you for what you’ve done to my sister! I hate you for what you’ve done to my parents! I hate you for what you’ve done to my people!”

  I threw myself on Cheryl’s bed, letting all my pent-up tears pour out. I pounded my fists into the bed, allowing my emotions to tumble out. I felt a fr
enzied rage at how alcohol had torn our lives apart, had torn apart the lives of our people. I felt angry for having done so many wrong things at so many wrong times. And I felt self-pity because I would no longer have Cheryl with me.

  “Oh, Cheryl, why did you have to go and kill yourself? All those people at the funeral, they loved you so much. Didn’t that count? I loved you so much. Didn’t that count? Didn’t it matter to you? You had so much going for you. You didn’t have to kill yourself, Cheryl! Why? Why?”

  I writhed on the bed as if I was in physical pain. I was. At times I would become still, but not for long. Stronger emotions would come crashing down on me and I would toss and turn again, trying to exorcise the painful anguish from within. I pounded my fists into the bed, again and again, in frustration. “If only ...” Those words repeated themselves over and over in my head. But it was too late. Cheryl’s death was final.

  When I had spent the last of my tears, I sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the mess I had made in the room. Scattered fragments of the whiskey bottle were all over the floor. Cheryl’s pillow was soaked with my tears. I looked again at the floor. If only I could smash the problem of alcoholism as easily as I had that bottle.

  Temporarily void of all emotion, I systematically began to clean the room. I put the Kleenex tissues into the garbage container. I began picking up the larger pieces of glass. I grabbed one piece a little too savagely and it cut my hand. I looked at the blood oozing out in a thin red line. “Still after more blood, are you? Well, you cut down my sister, my parents, my people. But no more. I’ll see to it. Somehow. Some way.”

  When I had finished cleaning Cheryl’s room, I sat down again on her bed. I wondered where to start packing, not wanting to start. Then I remembered all of Cheryl’s papers, the journals she had kept. There were two boxes under her bed and I began going through them. The first was full of newspaper clippings, but it was her journals I wanted. They were in the other box.

  I began looking through them. The last entry she had made was in January 1972. That was the month I had been raped. I looked for a 1970 journal. It was this one I was most interested in, because that was when I had first lost touch with Cheryl.

  The entries for January indicated she had started the search for our parents. February had occasional references to her continued search. There was more in March.

  I see more and more of what April sees. Broken people with broken houses and broken furniture. The ones on Main Street: the ones who give us our public image; the ones I see puking all over public sidewalks, battling it out with each other, their blood smearing up city-owned property; women selling what’s left of themselves for a cheap bottle of wine. No wonder April ran. She was horrified that this was her legacy. She disowned it, and now she’s trapped in that life of glitter and tinsel, still going nowhere. Charitable organizations! What a load of crap. Surrounded by a lot of people—business-smart, but empty just like the Main Street bums.

  The more I see of these streets, the more I wonder if April isn’t right. Just maybe. Better to live that empty life than live out on the streets. What if I do find our parents? Sometimes I can’t help it, I feel like April does: I despise these people, these gutter-creatures. They are losers. But there is a reason why they are that way. Everything they once had has been taken from them. And the white bureaucracy has helped create the image of parasitic Natives. But sometimes, I do wonder if these people don’t accept defeat too easily, like a dog with his tail between his legs, on his back, his throat forever exposed.

  Happy Birthday, April. What do you give the person who has everything? I can give peace of mind with a few lies.

  May 1970. Struck pay dirt with a new address on Austin. The place is rented by a woman named Josie Pohequitas. I knock on the door and it is opened by this little bent old woman who is stoned out of her mind—but happy as hell. I have figured out now it’s better to see these people at certain times of the day. You have to be late enough so they can start getting over last night’s drunk, and early enough so they’re not whacked out of it yet. I ask if she knows Henry or Alice Raintree.

  “Henri? Henri Raintree?” she says in a French-type accent.

  “Yes, I’m his daughter and I’ve been looking for him,” I say in a pleasant voice. What else can I say?

  “Ah, yeah, mais oui, we’re good friends, you know. Come in. Here, sit down here. He comes to our place when the snows are gone. He goes north for winters. He is welcome here. He stays. Sometimes we have big party. Sometimes we have big fight. Then he goes. But he always come back, Henri does. He will come back. You come back in couple of weeks. You will see. He will be here then.”

  I’m tickled a deeper shade of brown, you might say. I tell the toothless woman with her toothless smile that I will be back.

  June 1970. I knock at this door again, having been here a few times with no luck, and expecting none this time.

  “Ah, Cheryl, it’s you again. Come in, come in,” her face lights up into a big grin, still toothless.

  “Henri, Henri, come out here and see the surprise that is here for you. Hurry up, Henri,” her voice is high-pitched and squeaky.

  An old, grey-haired man comes walking out of the kitchen. He is trying to keep his balance. Curiosity is piercing through his drunken haze. I assume that Josie has told him about me, but still, it’s a few minutes before he realizes it’s me.

  My smile disappears, but a smile slowly appears on that leathery, unshaven face. “No, no, it can’t be. Not my little daughter Cheryl; my little baby. You’re all grown up now.” He chuckles and staggers a little closer to me. He makes a visible effort to draw himself up, but he has drunk too much already and the feat is beyond him. His clothes are worn, dirty, and dishevelled. Tears of happiness, and perhaps awakened guilt, pour from his watery eyes.

  The woman, Josie, is beaming with pride as if this “joyful” reunion were all her doing. “It’s like a miracle. It is like a miracle,” she cackles over and over again, watching father and daughter face each other. I am rooted to the very spot, absorbing the true picture of my father. I make no effort to move toward him. This goes unnoticed and the old man approaches me.

  “I cannot believe that we are standing here, face to face, at long last. At long, long last,” the decrepit, old man says.

  I stand quietly, hiding the horror that is building inside of me. I hadn’t known what to expect. But it wasn’t this, this bent, wasted human form in front of me. My father! I am horrified and repulsed: by him; by the cackling, prune-faced woman; by the others who have crawled out of the kitchen to watch all this “happiness,” all of them with stupid grins on their faces; by the surrounding decay; by the hopelessness. The cancer from the houses I’ve been to has spread into this house too. To destroy.

  All my dreams to rebuild the spirit of a once-proud nation are destroyed in this instant. I study the pitiful creature in front of me. My father! A gutter-creature!

  The imagination of my childhood has played a horrible, rotten trick on me. All these years, until this very moment, I had envisioned him as a tall, straight, handsome man. In the olden days, he would have been a warrior if he had been all Indian. I had made something out of him that he wasn’t, never was. Now I just want to turn and run away, pretend this wasn’t happening, that I had never laid eyes on him. Pretend I was an orphan.

  I should have listened to April.

  Awkwardly he hugs me. I smell the foul stink of liquor on him. Hell, he probably sweats liquor out of his pores. I close my eyes so no one will see what’s in them. I hold my breath against the gutter smell. Seems like ages before he releases me. When he does, he turns to the others and says, “Don’t just stand there; bring her a drink. Now we have something to celebrate. I found my little girl after all these years. Tell me, Cheryl, where is your sister? Where is April? I missed you both so much. Ah, here we are.”

  He hands me a beer and wipes his tears and runny nose on the sleeve of his shirt. I don’t answer. I just think, “April is far
away from you and she’ll never know what you are, you gutter-creature!”

  Gratefully, I swallow some beer. Disgust, hatred, shame ... yes, for the first time in my life, I feel shame. How do I describe the feeling? I swallow more beer.

  I stay for the rest of the day in spite of my desire to flee. I stay because I want to know about Mom. But I want Dad sober when I ask him about Mom. Funny; I can still refer to him as Dad. I drink away the hours, feeling dizzy, nauseous sensations, as I laugh stupidly with them. Josie puts me to bed, just in time, on the battered couch in the living room.

  Next morning, I wait patiently for Dad to get up. It is almost noon. He comes into the kitchen. He looked in rough shape last night, but now he looks worse, with his weak, flabby arms showing because he’s in a torn, greyish undershirt. His dark-coloured baggy pants are held up by suspenders that are frayed to the breaking point and all twisted. I get coffee for him. Josie is busy puttering around the kitchen. No one talks. The only noises come from Dad slurping his coffee.

  Finally, I ask him, “Dad, could we talk?” Sounds like I’m shouting. I lower my voice. “I want to know about Mom. How is she? Do you see her?” Dad makes a gesture as if he doesn’t want to talk about her right now, but I persist. “Please, Dad. Tell me about Mom. Where is she?”

  Tears come to his eyes again. He says simply, “She died last July.”

  “Died? Mom died?” I ask, not believing. I then figure out that since Mom was in poor health when we were kids, that’s why she died. I wish I could have seen her. Poor, dear mother. Maybe that’s why Dad turned to booze. He misses her so much he can’t live without her. I can forgive that, retract all the bad thoughts about him.

  But Dad speaks again. “I may as well tell you everything.” He sighs and lapses into another long silence. I try to make it shorter by telling him to continue. “Tell me what, Dad?”

  “Your mother took her own life. She killed herself,” he says at last. “She left a letter for me, but I had gone up north early that year. I have a nephew in Dauphin. I stop in there sometimes. They sent the letter there. She jumped off the Louise Bridge last July. I took the letter to the RCMP and they checked with the Winnipeg police. They had found a body, and everything matched your Mama. She was not happy with her life. Once she lost you girls and Anna died, she knew she would never get you girls back again. Those visits were the hardest on her. So she stopped going. She tried to kill herself before, once, a long time ago, eh.”