“Don’t you find it cold in here?” Louise asked.
“No,” Elinor said. “I wear warm things.”
There was a limit to how much clothing she was prepared to wear inside, Louise thought.
“How about a fire?” Louise asked.
“That would be nice,” Elinor said. “When your father was alive, he started one at the end of August and kept it going until the springtime.” She rolled her lips together. “Do you remember those winters on the reserve?”
“I don’t like thinking about them, but I remember them,” Louise said. Mostly, she remembered the cold: Freezing drafts around the windows and beneath the door. A film of snow on the floor if the wind had been especially strong. Frozen tea at the bottom of mugs. She tired of turnip and gopher meat; some days there wasn’t even that.
She crumpled newspaper and shoved it into the sooty cavity of the stove. “Got any kindling?” There were a few birch logs near the stove but nothing smaller.
“On the porch,” Elinor said. “It wasn’t all bad on the reserve. At least everyone was together. Sure, some had their problems, but we had community and that gave its own heat.”
Not the kind of heat she liked, Louise thought as she grabbed a handful of twigs and a few pieces of split wood from the pile on the porch. A daddy-long-legs, exposed by her shifting the wood, picked its way back into obscurity. She wasn’t convinced there was much of a community. What kind of community could there be with so much misery? Her mother wouldn’t see it that way. She’d not dispute the suffering, but she wouldn’t get stuck there. She’d remember the laughter, the jokes, the dancing and drumming and costumes at the powwows. And those who were able helping out those less capable, knowing that at any moment their places might be reversed.
“I’ll get John to bring more wood,” Louise said. She criss-crossed twigs on top of the newspaper then struck a match and held it in a fold of the paper. The tiny flame quivered and smoked then went out. It was the same with the next match she struck. Louise fussed with the paper, spreading it open, tearing smaller strips. This time the fire took hold. Once the kindling had caught, she laid the split wood on top and moved a couple of logs near.
“Whatever happened to Blanche? What was her last name?” Louise asked.
“Horsetree,” Elinor said.
Louise and Blanche had been close friends. They’d play cards for hours and hours or take long walks in the woods when Blanche could spare some time from helping her mother. Louise had wanted Blanche to go with her when she left the reserve. Maybe she wouldn’t have been lonely for so long if she’d had Blanche. But Blanche wouldn’t leave her mother; she wouldn’t leave her mother to care for her seven sisters and brothers on her own. Blanche wasn’t as restless and as unhappy as Louise.
“Do you see her? Or her mother?” Louise asked.
“Pretty hard to do that,” Elinor said.
Flames roared through the kindling. Louise positioned a log in the midst of the fire and closed the door of the stove.
“Is she sick?”
“No. Not really.”
“Did they move? You lost touch?”
“You didn’t hear?” Elinor asked.
“Hear what?”
Elinor pushed the blanket from her shoulders. “Five years ago, they were all killed in a fire. Someone left a pot of oil on the stove. Only one who survived was the younger brother, Willie. He was away at a hockey game.”
“Was it in the news? I never heard a thing about it.”
“It was in the Indian news,” Elinor said.
The Indian news. Louise arranged lettuce and slices of tomato on bread. She put extra mayonnaise and pepper on her mother’s sandwich. It would have been front page news in the Indian community. In the standard news, there might have been a single paragraph, at the bottom of a page, near the end of the newspaper. If that.
“That’s awful,” Louise said, pulling up a chair beside her mother’s rocker.
“It was a terrible thing. They found the bodies in their beds. Smoke must have got to them before they realized there was a fire. Poor Willie, only eleven. He went crazy. He’d been such a good kid, a really good hockey player. Well, he quit that, refused to go to school, and wouldn’t work. His auntie didn’t know what to do with him. I don’t know what’s happened to the boy. Another lost one.”
Elinor’s dentures clicked as she chewed.
They gazed at the valley. Clouds moved in and out of the sun’s rays; dark blotches appeared on the floor of the cottage then disappeared. White light jiggled on the walls; the room was bright, then grey, then bright again.
Louise wished her mother would say something about Bright Eyes. She should be the one to begin the conversation, but she wouldn’t. It would be up to Louise.
“Should I make tea?” Louise asked. “Are you going to eat the rest?” Her mother had eaten half the sandwich.
Elinor shook her head. “Any news yet?”
“News of?” Louise asked.
“The child, of course. I don’t care about anything else right now. I can’t bear to listen to anything more about that Vietnam War. Although I think it’s a horrid thing. And shooting Martin Luther King. What is wrong with people?”
Louise said Alice was going to talk to Lillian. And they were trying to get a list of students who’d been at the school when Elinor was there. She said it would help a great deal if they knew Bright Eyes’ adult name. She stacked up the dishes, put them in the sink, filled the sink with water, then came back to her mother. “I hate to ask you this, but do you remember his name? The father’s name?”
Elinor began to rock and muttered words Louise did not understand.
“I’m not understanding you,” Louise said.
“Red berries. Red berries,” Elinor said. “That’s what I said to myself when he was doing it to me. I’ve worked very hard to forget his name, the smell of his breath, the feel of his fingers …” She rocked harder.
Louise sat beside her mother and took hold of her hand. “Are you sure you want to do this, Mom? It’s been so long …”
Elinor yanked her hand from Louise’s. “How can you think that, let alone ask it? Of course I want to do this! I have to do this before I die.”
A hawk soared over the river. Shrubs swayed and shook in the wind. Some reached over to touch the water.
“Did Daddy know?” She didn’t look at her mother as she spoke the question.
Elinor shoved a finger along her bottom denture. “I couldn’t tell him. I was too ashamed.”
Louise hesitated. She stacked the magazines on her mother’s table, swept her hand over the surface to take away the dust and cigarette ashes. “You never told me,” Louise said.
Elinor muttered in Cree. Words Louise didn’t know. “No. You didn’t want to hear. At least that’s what I told myself for a long time. Maybe that wasn’t fair.”
“I was stupid. Mean. Only thinking of myself.”
“Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps the Creator knew another might care for her better. But she’s been away too long.” She turned toward Louise; her eyes were moist but they weren’t heavy with sadness. “I know it’s a lot to ask. I know you are busy with your work, important work. Have I ever told you you’ve made a good thing of your life? But I must see her before I die.”
Louise saw no point in saying it was such a long shot. She might have to reconsider the idea of running an ad in the local, or even national, newspapers. She needed names of teachers, those who worked at the school. They’d be dead. But perhaps they had spoken to a relative.
“I know you think it’s impossible,” Elinor said, “like chasing after fluffs of milkweed in a windstorm. But she is alive and she is ready to come home. She has always wanted that. It’s my fault. I have not given her a clear enough message to return.”
“Alice said you have a photograph. Can I see it?”
“It’s in there.” Elinor pointed toward the bedroom. “In my dresser, under the socks.”
Louise turned toward the bedroom.
“Wait. Why are you so shocked about this?”
“It’s disturbing. That such an awful thing happened to you.”
“Lots of disturbing things happened to lots of our people. We’ve been silent too long.”
“You really think she’ll be alive?” Louise asked.
“Why not? Somebody took you in, put food in your belly.”
“I suppose.”
“Who was she?” Elinor asked. “I can’t figure whether I should thank her for caring for you. Or curse her for stealing my daughter.”
“She’s dead. Can I get the photo now?”
“She’s not just my child. She’s also your sister. Remember that.”
Elinor pulled the blanket over her legs. She believed her expectations were great, but not impossible.
11
Elinor tried to wiggle her finger under the flap of the envelope, cursing when the paper would not come unstuck. She got a knife, shoved it into the crack at the end of the flap, and tore at the paper. She pulled out the contents. It was rare that she got a letter, and this was a thick one.
Dear Ellie, it began. No one but her sister called her that; she didn’t like it much.
I phoned several times. You didn’t answer so here I am writing you a letter. I hope you read it. How are you? I am well enough but my hip bothers me more than I would like.
I had a lovely visit with Alice the other week. It’s been so long. I was surprised to hear from her but she said you told her to call. That was even more of a surprise.
Why is she not yet married? Such a lovely girl. Her students are lucky to have her.
She brought me a pair of rolled beeswax candles. I told her you had kept bees on the reserve for a while. You got lots of honey but the bees kept swarming.
We talked a lot about you. Alice was keen to hear all my stories. I told her you were always feisty and independent. And bossy. I remember you being so bossy. We’d go berry picking. It was all business to you. We had to pick so many berries before we went back. I just wanted to lie in the sun, glut myself with strawberries, raspberries or whatever it was we had gone after.
Alice told me about her teaching, that she had lots of Indian students and how hard it was to keep them interested. I remembered the summers when we were home from that school. You’d get into the worst moods. I wondered what they were teaching you. Mother and Father had no idea what to do with you. It was years before I realized how hard it must have been for them. I went to that school, too, but it didn’t have the same effect on me. Not that there weren’t hard times.
You tried so hard to look after me when you were at school. You were never like that at home. And boy, you hated that one teacher. What was his name? You made me promise never to get myself alone in a room with him. You kept pinching me until I promised. Was he the one? The one who made you pregnant? How did I not know you were pregnant? You were very good at hiding it.
Elinor turned from the letter and rubbed her eyes. Had she made a mistake telling Alice to talk to Lillian? She lit a cigarette, sucked in a few puffs, stared at the black cast-iron pot on the stove. Alice had left it; it was full of beef stew. She was a good girl. All of Louise’s children had turned out very well. Better than her own kids. She mustn’t think that way. Le Roy fell apart after Joseph’s death. Charlie was a good man; she didn’t see him much. He’d chosen a simple life way north in the bush. She should have spoken out sooner. All those years lost. Why had she not gone looking sooner?
She picked up the letter again.
Elinor, I told Alice there were good times too. Always cousins to play with. Somebody to give you a hug. An auntie or grandparent to tell you a story or sing a song. We’d walk in the valley, look for wild onion, rosehips for tea. Sometimes the wind blew so hard you’d think you’d never get back to the camp. Remember the time we found that dead coyote, crawling with maggots, half its belly eaten away? You poked a stick at it and a cloud of flies flew up from it.
But it was hard on the rez too. So many starving, sick, freezing in the winter months. They expected us to farm, but what did Mama and Papa, or anyone know about farming in those days? That was not a fast way to get food compared to hunting and finding what was growing on the land. Some years there was nothing from our gardens. Grasshoppers ate it all. Or there was no rain and the plants shrivelled up and died. Every tool they gave us was stamped with Dept. of Indian Affairs. What were we? The hired help?
After I got away from the rez, I didn’t pay attention to my Indian sisters and brothers for a long time. I’m not proud of that. I suppose I got comfortable. My life with Leonard seemed so far away from all that. What could I do for those taking drugs, drinking until they fell down? And then there was that business with the girl from Sandy Point last spring. Did you hear about that, Ellie?
Elinor flung the letter across the table. Yes, she’d heard about that poor child. She didn’t want to think about it again. The story cut too close to the bone for her. A fourteen-year-old raped by a pack of hoodlums. Poor child. She shouldn’t have died, but because of her diabetes and missing her medicines.… The fools dropped her miles from her reserve when they were finished with her.
Elinor shuffled to the kitchen. There were mouse droppings on the counter, but Elinor’s eyesight being what it was, she didn’t see them. She filled the kettle with water, plunked it on the stove, and turned away, forgetting to turn on the element. She returned to Lillian’s letter; it was the size of a small book. That’s why she didn’t always answer her phone, because Lillian would talk on and on for hours.
Elinor, I couldn’t talk to Leonard about the girl. He’d say she shouldn’t have been walking by herself. He’d say lots of Indian girls her age are on the streets selling their bodies to pay for their alcohol. Of course, he’d never ask why they are doing that. They never used to. The only good that came out of that poor girl’s tragedy was that I got past my fear. I got mad. Damned mad.
Alice asked about that kiskinwahamatowikamik. I didn’t want to talk about it. I think that’s how it is for most who went there. Even though the building burned down. Some still won’t go near the place. Most have wanted to forget that time. But it’s like a burr on a sock. You barely know it’s there; it won’t fall off of its own accord. You have to yank it away.
Alice asked me if I knew about your child. I told her I only found out after you stopped going to that school. I still remember the day you told me. Do you remember that, Ellie?
It was early spring, fall maybe. Yes, fall. The sun stayed low in the sky. We walked fast to keep warm, shoulders hunched up, hands shoved in our pockets. We’d gone into town to get a few things. A woman came into the store. She had a young child, three or four years old, long black hair, olive complexion. You kept staring and staring at the girl. You had always been one to study things, to pay attention to the shadows and brightness in the light, how the colours changed through the course of the day. But this was different. It was a look like a cat gets when it sees a bird it might be able to catch. I hissed at you to stop but you kept on. Fortunately the woman didn’t notice or there would have been trouble.
When you started to move toward the child I grabbed your wrist and squeezed as hard as I could. I wanted to hurt you, anything to distract your attention. It worked. You got very bossy and told me to hurry up. Usually you were a careful shopper but this time you grabbed anything. You didn’t even count the change. As soon as we were out of the store you were walking so fast I could hardly keep up. We had the groceries to carry. I said I wasn’t hurrying.
We were barely ten minutes from the store when you stopped and fell down on the side of the road. You wrapped your arms around yourself and started rocking and moaning. Like you had a stomach ache. I had no idea what was happening. I didn’t want anyone to see you. I pulled at you to get up, to hold on to whatever it was until we got home. But you wouldn’t budge. A couple of cars slowed down. I waved at them to keep going. You were wailing and curled
up in the grass. Finally, you sat up, swiped the tears from your face, and told me everything that had happened to you. At first I thought you were lying. You liked to make up stories, remember? But you’d been crying so hard; I’d never seen you like that. I knew it was the truth. Probably I hoped it wasn’t. You made me swear not to tell Mother and Father. We never talked about it again.
Elinor pushed the letter away. She wanted to burn it. It was too hard, all this remembering. That’s why the Creator enabled people to forget. But even as she thought that, she knew it was better that the stories from the past be given to the next generation. It had always been that way; it was one of the things that kept her people strong.
She went to the stove; the kettle was cold as ice. She snatched the letter from the table.
Thankfully, there was only one page left.
Elinor, Alice said you want her to find that child. Are you CRAZY? How will she do that? All the people who knew about it are pretty much dead. It’s been SEVEN decades. She asked me if I knew who the father was. You never told me, Elinor, but I have a pretty good idea who it was. He’ll be dead, too.
I know Alice was disappointed that I couldn’t give her names or places to look. It’s a very TALL order, Elinor. I’m not sure it’s fair that you are asking it of her. Especially since it’s so long ago. Can’t you let it go? Pray for your child, pass on your love through the stars, the fire, and wind, but asking your granddaughter to go on such a chase? And what does Louise say about it?
Oh, I don’t want to sound so harsh. I did tell her I would ask around, but I am not hopeful.
Miwasin, miwasin. It was so good that she came.
And Elinor, PICK UP THE PHONE next time I call.
Love,
your sister, Lillian
Tears in the Grass Page 7