In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  I digest what he says ... too hard on her? What about April and me? In those foster homes? Okay, only one was real bad, and April suffered most of that one. But I suffered for April. And the other ones? Those people weren’t our flesh and blood. They weren’t even our race. I remember now those promises you made us, promises we believed; all the waiting for you to take us back home; all the loyalty we gave you ... all for nothing.

  “Who’s Anna?” I’m angry, but I don’t want to fight. I want information.

  Dad looks at me, surprised. “You don’t know about Anna? Oh, of course not; you were just a baby yourself when she died. April must remember her. Maybe not. She was just little too, and Anna wasn’t with us very long. She was your baby sister. But she was a sick baby. They should have kept her in the hospital longer. But, no, they sent her home too early and she died. They blamed your Mama and me. That was their excuse for taking you girls away from us. No, my girl, your Mama was not a happy woman.”

  “Why didn’t you come to see us when we were kids?” I ask in a soft voice, afraid of an honest answer.

  There is another long pause. “I went up north for a long time. I was never here to visit you again,” he says, as if that’s a good enough reason. “No, your Mama did not want you girls to see the way she was. She was too ashamed. She couldn’t face you again. They shouldn’t have taken you away from us. The baby was just sick, that’s all.” Dad drifts off in silence again.

  Dad asks me to come back and see him tomorrow. I say I will. I do. Josie says Dad left that morning to see some friends of his for a few days. Here I thought he would be patiently waiting for me. Ha! What a joke!

  I sat back on the bed with the journal clutched to me. This was the second mention of Anna. I’d been thinking of Anna after Cheryl had told me about her. Baby Anna; I remembered that’s what I had called her. Recollections of my mother rocking a baby had come back, much clearer. I’d always had vague pictures in mind, but I’d never realized the baby was our own sister. Baby Anna. She’d been with us for just a fraction of our lives. But she was sick and had to go to the hospital. And now, here in Cheryl’s journal were Dad’s words saying the same thing. Baby Anna. Such a small part of our lives. Yet she had changed our lives the most.

  This was exactly how Cheryl had felt when she found Dad. And after all that he told her, she still went back to see him the next day; she was still loyal to him. How was it she had the natural family instinct? I had instincts only for self-preservation, pushing anyone away from me who might hurt me. I was a loner. Only lately had I let Roger in; then Nancy and her mother, hugging me that night, giving me all that they had felt for Cheryl. Before Roger, who else besides Cheryl had hugged me and meant it? Well, maybe Mrs. Dion. I remembered wishing many times that I could be as affectionate as Cheryl. That meeting with Dad; maybe it destroyed her self-image. Funny though, since she had seen that side of Native life before. I wondered what sort of image she had built up about our parents? Was it that image of long ago that had sustained her, given her hope?

  February 18, 1971. So ... a son is born to me. It should have been a very special day for him. A day when his aunt, his grandparents, and all his relatives rejoiced. Instead, it’s just him and me. What’s that joke I read? If he had known what was going to be in store for him, he would have cried a whole lot louder?

  February 22, 1971. Having pondered over what to call you, my sweet child, I’ve decided on Henry Liberty Raintree. May you grow up to be all your grandfather is not.

  March 10, 1971. Nance is babysitting and I’m free for a while. Feels great to be let out. Henry Lee’s been so cranky lately. Hell, we’ve got to move out ’cause kids aren’t allowed. Landlord’s just a prejudiced bastard. I thought Henry Lee would change my life for the better, but I can see I thought wrong. Must say, though, I do feel good about this place and being able to drown my sorrows. Don’t think Nance will mind my coming home late. She’ll understand.

  April 8, 1971. Sure am glad Nancy’s Mom is letting Henry Lee stay at her place. I’m not so tied down anymore. She sure gives him some good mothering. I don’t think motherhood was meant for me. I’d rather be out partying than sitting at home changing dirty diapers.

  June 1971. Nancy’s Mom is keeping Henry Lee for me for good now. Do I feel guilty? Only when I’m sober. And I try very hard to see that doesn’t happen. I give her money all the time, so I’m sure she doesn’t mind. Wish I had a mother like that.

  October 1971. Today, Dad says he doesn’t know where he is going to stay because he can’t pay his rent. I know what he wants, so I give him forty bucks. His eyes bulge. Usually, I only give him ten or twenty.

  At DeCarlo’s with Nance. The gang is all here, too. Already we got suckers to pay for our drinks. It’s cheap coming here. I give my money to Dad so he can go get tanked, and I come here and get mine free. I have to laugh at dumb jokes, let these guys run their hands up my legs. They think they’re going to get more later, but I can avoid that.

  Mark DeSoto. Now if all these guys were like Mark ... but they’re not. Nance says Mark’s ol’ lady, Sylvia, is going to have it in for me if I hang around with him. He’s over there at another table. He comes to say hello. I ignore him. He was supposed to call during the weekend and didn’t. The suckers at my table are really playing up to me tonight. Got to go to the john.

  Walking back to my table, I hear this shrill voice. “Hey, squaw, I don’t share my man with no one. You hear me, bitch? Especially no squaw.” Sylvia comes into my path and stops. I stop. I look her in the eye. “If I’m a squaw, honey, what’s Mark? He’s as much an Indian as I am.” I feel ridiculous and powerful at the same time. I know what I’m capable of. I give her my coldest stare. I know I’ve won this round. She can’t match my gaze. The “blonde bombshell” jabs a finger into my shoulder, telling me what she’s going to do to me. I twist around slightly and bring my fist into the side of her face, not real hard but hard enough to back her off. The dumb broad trips over a chair and sprawls on the floor. Everyone laughs, hoping for a fight. I step over her and continue on my way.

  “You’re going to pay for this, Cheryl Raintree.”

  “Yeah? Well, you better give it your best shot, Sylvia.”

  Mark struts over to my table. My precious companions scatter. He sits down and grins. “So you’re my prize,” I say to him, sarcastically. But the evening ends with Mark in my bed.

  Mark moves in. Nance moves out. Landlord requests that we remove ourselves after the first party. I find a cheap place on Elgin.

  November 1971. I’m working. Mark is working the streets. We’re always broke. I sell all the furniture, except the typewriter. I wonder why April gave it to me. She’s the one with the writing talent. I give it to Nance for safekeeping so Mark won’t sell it.

  We’re stone broke. Mark owes everyone, so we can’t hit anyone up for a loan. Mark says to me, “You know that guy who comes to Neptune’s and he always looks the chicks over? Well, he’s loaded, lots of dough, kind of loaded, and sometimes I sit and talk to him.”

  “I know who you mean. What about him? You’re going to borrow some money from him?”

  “He never lends money. But sometimes he sees a chick he likes and asks me if I can arrange a meeting. So, I go to her, and if she’s interested, we share the money he pays, see?”

  “You mean you’re some kind of pimp?”

  “Not a pimp, Cheryl. I just do two people a favour and I get some money out of it. We need money now—bad, and I know he’s got the hots for you. I just thought you might consider it, just this once.”

  “You’re asking me to go to bed with another man?”

  “Well, it’s not like there’d be any feelings between you. Just think of it as a business transaction. I told him you were a very special girl, and he’s willing to pay more for you. Come on, Cheryl, one hour’s work and you could make fifty bucks. I’ll try to get more.”

  “Forget it.” I’m bloody mad. “I’m no fucking prostitute.” I storm out of th
e house.

  A week later. We’re still broke. I’m drinking at Neptune’s. I’m almost drunk. Mark comes over. This sucker who’s been buying me drinks leaves quickly. Funny, the power Mark has. “Cheryl, please, we gotta get some money. The landlord said today he’d give us another twenty-four hours and no more.”

  “Is he kinky?” I’m just dirt. Who cares if he’s kinky.

  Later. I’m back at Neptune’s. I have a drink. Another one. Another one. My parents deserted me, April has left me, Mark is a no-goddamned-good fucking-son-of-a-bitch. I have another drink. And another one. Let Mark use me. I don’t care. Let April sit in her fancy white palace. I just don’t give a damn!

  January 1972. I’m an old pro now. I’m working the streets full time. I avoid the pigs by picking johns that are obviously not pigs. Well, pigs in another way. Mark arranges a lot of meetings too. I’ve gotten into other things I bet Mrs. Semple never even heard of for her old syndrome speech. I’m still broke. First thing when I see Dad, he says, “Cheryl, I need a twenty for groceries.”

  “I don’t have any.” He goes into a rage. “What d’ya mean, you don’t have any? You got enough to go drinking but you can’t spare your poor Pa any? Did that bum you’re shacked up with tell you not to give me any more? You’re just as bad as your ol’ lady was, you know that? A lazy no-good-for-nothing. Running around all the time, living with bums. I need some money. I need groceries and I got to pay the rent. Now I got nothing, just ’cause you couldn’t hang onto a simple job.”

  Stung by his ranting, I stare at him. I tell him he’s worse. I swear at him. I tell him what I think of him: that he’s a parasite, a gutter-creature. I tell him it’s his fault Mom killed herself. The tears spring to his eyes. I leave him. Let him stew in his guilt. I sure as hell stew in mine.

  At home. Mark comes in. I’m angry and still brooding. Mark is angry. I’m supposed to be at Neptune’s. We need money real bad. He yells. I yell. He beats me. I’m used to it. He avoids hitting my face. He has learned it’s not good for business. He leaves.

  I walk along Main Street. This is where I belong—with the other gutter-creatures. I’m my father’s daughter. My body aches. I enter a hotel. I don’t know which one. The word ”Beverage” is all I see. I need a drink. A couple of drinks. The depression is bitterly deep. The booze doesn’t help this time.

  I’m back on the street. I’m drunk. I want to run in front of a car. The guy who was buying my drinks comes with me. What a creep. We head to my place on Elgin. We take a shortcut down a lane. The creep wants to fondle me and kiss me. He can’t wait. “Back off, you ugly old man. I’m no whore, you know?” I don’t know why I say that, but I repeat it. I can scarcely keep my balance. It’s like there’s two of me, one watching, one doing.

  “I wanna kiss you. I know what you are. So don’t pretend with me. I paid for you.”

  “You stink. Leave me alone, you filthy pig!” I slur the words. He gives me a push. I slam into the wall and fall into a sitting position. My legs have given out. I close my eyes. I like the sensation of everything spinning around at full speed. I open my eyes. I smile dumbly up at the man. He slams his fist into my face.

  I wake up. I’m lying on the sidewalk. My legs are sprawled out in front of me. I notice the garbage cans and garbage bags on either side of me. “Hello there!” I say to them. “I’ve come home at long, long last.” I chuckle to myself. I think how in the morning the garbagemen will take us all away, me and my friends. I giggle. I try to get up. I can’t. So I stay put. Every once in a while I chuckle to myself. I hum a tuneless song.

  I wake up. April is holding my hand. I can’t see her but it’s April. I squeeze her hand.

  I felt anger and bewilderment. Not at Cheryl or anyone else. Mostly, I guess the anger was for me. For being the way I was. Because it had caused Cheryl to feel so alienated from me that she couldn’t share the most important event in her life with me. Cheryl’s baby. Henry Liberty Raintree. Then I smiled. A part of Cheryl still lived.

  I looked at my watch. And sighed. It was 4:00 am. I’d have to wait until later in the morning. I paced around the room and finally returned to the journals. I put them back in the box and set them on the floor. Then I stretched out on Cheryl’s bed, on top of the covers, still fully clothed. With my hands under my head, I stared up at the ceiling. The clock downstairs was abnormally loud and so, so slow. A few hours more and I could be on my way to Nancy’s place, to Henry Lee.

  For the moment, I thought of Cheryl. The memories of her voice; the memory of her reciting her powerful message at the powwow. Why, oh why, didn’t she talk to me? Why couldn’t we have talked to each other? And would it have helped? At times I was overwhelmed with memories of her, and tears would trickle down the sides of my face.

  Later that morning I woke up, dismayed that I had fallen asleep. Then I was dismayed to find it was still too early to go to Nancy’s place. The sun, a golden orange ball of fire, was just beginning to rise. I went downstairs to make coffee and freshen up. My eyes felt swollen. Again the house seemed so empty, cold, lifeless. With my cup of coffee in hand, I opened the front door and stood looking out at the still, empty street. The birds were just beginning to sing their morning praises to their Creator. It had rained during the night. Everything was wet. The smell of wet earth was invigorating. So clean. I stood there, breathing deeply. Then I noticed there was a letter in the mailbox. I thought of leaving it for the moment, but didn’t. The minute I saw it was Cheryl’s handwriting, my heart started to pound. I tore it open and sat down, heedless of the damp step.

  Dear April,

  By the time you get this, I will have done what I had to do. I have said my goodbye to my son, Henry Liberty. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you about him before. Now, I know you will do what is right where he is concerned. I also know that Mary and Nancy will do as you wish. They’re taking care of Henry Lee. All my life, I wanted for us to be a real family; together, normal. I couldn’t even mother my own baby!

  Do not feel sorrow or guilt over my death. Man thinks he can control Nature. Man is wrong. The Great Spirit has made Nature stronger than man by putting into each of us a part of Nature. We all have the instinct to survive. If that instinct is gone, then we die.

  April, there should be at least a little joy in living. When there is no joy, then we become the living dead. And I can’t live this living death any longer. To drink myself to sleep, day in and day out.

  April, you have strength. Dream my dreams for me. Make them come true for me. Be proud of what you are, of what you and Henry Lee are. I belong with our Mother.

  Love to you and Henry Lee,

  Cheryl

  An hour later, I was at Nancy’s place once again. She opened the door for me as if she had been expecting me right at that particular moment. I followed her down the hall to the kitchen. Sitting at the table was a small boy eating some cereal. He looked up at me as I walked into the room. He smiled, the same kind of smile I had seen a long time before on his mother’s face when she was that age, the age of innocence.

  Nancy began explaining, but I stopped her. I told her I understood everything. As I stared at Henry Lee, I remembered that during the night I had used the words “my people, our people” and meant them. The denial had been lifted from my spirit. It was tragic that it had taken Cheryl’s death to bring me to accept my identity. But no, Cheryl had once said, “All life dies to give new life.” Cheryl had died. But for Henry Lee and me, there would be a tomorrow. And it would be better. I would strive for it. For my sister and her son. For my parents. For my people.

  Author’s Note

  When I wrote In Search of April Raintree over twenty-five years ago, my aim was to find answers only for myself. Out of that writing, I came to the conclusion that I needed to reclaim my heritage. I needed to value the honour of being Métis. Otherwise, the suicides of both of my sisters would have just been added to the emotionless statistics. And I might have lived the rest of my life with self-pity and hatred and
resentment – a living death.

  Today, I’m guessing that many of our children must think we’ve abandoned them. We haven’t. We are here for you but we can’t make your choices for you. You have to take responsibility for your own lives.

  Mother Earth needs you. She needs you to be strong and to take action. Take action in your daily lives—turn off the lights. Take action at the voting booths—we need a strong, reliable leadership. When Cheryl Raintree delivers her message at the powwow, she did not foresee the grave danger that Mother Earth faces today. Our generations have not respected our land, the air, and the waters. And now you and your children and your children’s children could pay for our follies.

  Just as I had to make a choice after the second suicide in my family—live powerfully or succumb to victimhood—you now have your choices.

  I want to thank those who helped me, directly or indirectly, in the writing of In Search of April Raintree: Murray Sinclair, Margaret Laurence, Ray Torgrud, Virginia Maracle and the rest of the staff at Pemmican Publications, the original publishers of the book. A special thanks to Maria Campbell who is like an older sister to me. And speaking of family: Mom, Dad, Kathy and Vivian, I cherish my memories of you, and Eddie, you’re always in my heart and this book is for you. I also want to thank my foster families who shared their homes with me. Thank you. And thank you to the many people whom I’ve met over the years and have encouraged me in some way. I also want to say how grateful I am to all those at Portage & Main Press, formerly Peguis Publishers, for your support and belief in me. And to my own family, you are my sanctuary.