Tears in the Grass

by Lynda A. Archer

  In the autumnal morning air, shivering, Elinor crept over the cold hardwood, trying to step carefully, hoping to avoid the creaky boards, but almost every plank had something to say. The window (one of the many she’d cleaned over the years) overlooked the backyard and the gardens of the school. Of all the work she’d done at that school, and there was lots — ironing clothes, washing toilets and floors, hanging clothes out to dry, peeling potatoes and carrots, cleaning the chicken house — she’d most enjoyed the summer garden work — planting beans, carrots, potatoes, and onions, weeding, and harvesting.

  Frost had sprinkled itself over the grass, the sidewalks, the roads. So beautiful, even though it meant winter was soon to follow. A hawk, shoulders hunched, its curled beak larger than she remembered, had perched itself on top of the flagpole. The raptor twisted its head in Elinor’s direction. The black, beady eyes gripped her like she imagined its talons held on to a fish. The bird extended its wings, flapped once or twice, and then it was coming right for her as if she was a mouse or a sparrow. At the last second it swerved from the window, but not before grazing a wing on the glass. Elinor gasped and jumped back.

  When she crept back to the window she located the hawk on the ground, still yet upright. Its beak was opening and closing as if it was gasping for air. She wanted to go to the bird but the doors to their dormitory were locked, as they were every night. Years later she’d hear of a fire in a residential school. Six children dead from smoke inhalation before the doors were unlocked.

  The bird took a couple of steps, ruffled its feathers, preened its wings, then waddled a few more steps. It extended its wings half of the full distance it was capable of, flapped a couple of times, and then took off.

  First in her dream and now at the school, Hawk had come to her. That morning she had decided she must be strong, take what she needed to keep herself that way. And she must find her daughter.

  The child that a few minutes ago had been giggling in the neighbour’s yard was now crying, screaming at the top of her lungs as if she had been hurt. As much as the sound pained her, Elinor had always marvelled at the strength in a child’s crying, the ability to let it out, to flaunt it if need be, to ensure that she was not ignored. So many years she, Elinor, had spent holding in her hurt and tears. That’s what they all learned to do at that school.

  One sound she had never learned to abide at that school was the ringing of the bell.

  Clang, clang, clang.

  Clangclangclangclangclangclangclang.

  Every event in the school started and ended with the clatter of the metal bell. Mornings were the worst. On and on until her head hurt; she cursed those of her classmates who were slow to get out of their beds, those who resisted, and even those who were ill. The priest stood next to their beds. Clangclangclang. Elinor wanted to smash the bell over the priest’s head, break the thing into a hundred pieces.

  One day one of her classmates managed to remove the clanger from inside the bell. Oh, the look on the priest’s face when no sound came from the thing. He had shaken it again, but still nothing. At first her friends tried not to laugh. They stuck fingers in their ears, pretending the bell was still ringing. Giggling and tittering rippled through the room. The priest, the short, fat one, was furious, but he didn’t let go. He never let loose. He made up for it with his cruel patience. She thought he was the worst of the lot. The tall, ugly priest with the crooked nose shouted and clapped his hands, slapped the nearest child or pinched his ears, then stomped away. No breakfast, or lunch, or trips to the bathroom, the fat priest said, until the person who removed the clanger had returned it to him. He sat on the edge of the nearest cot and asked all the children to kneel by their beds while they prayed.

  He prayed aloud. In English, French, Latin. He asked forgiveness for the sinner in their midst. One of the youngest, Elinor noticed, had peed, a puddle growing between her feet and legs. Bells were ringing in the other rooms; the voices of boys and older girls in the halls. They were going to breakfast.

  Elinor’s stomach grumbled. She heard other stomachs churning. Still no one came forward. She had no idea who had done this. Usually it was the kind of thing the boys did, not the girls. And maybe it was one of the boys. Frank. Samuel. Jacob. Those three always seemed to get into trouble. Frank ran away often. Samuel started fires in the garage, in the woodshed. Jacob bit and kicked anybody who stood too close to him, took too much food, and sang too loudly in church on Sundays.

  When she heard the next bells she knew breakfast was over. Time for chores. And still the priest, head bowed, hands clasped together, kept praying. She didn’t know why she did it. She kept wondering how it would end. How could the father be stopped? And the next thing she knew, she was standing up. She was saying the words. “Father, I took the clanger.”

  The priest continued to pray. In English, French, and Latin. Just as she was thinking she would repeat herself, the priest stood up. He adjusted his collar, wiped the wrinkles from his apron. As he walked toward Elinor, another girl stood up and said no, she was the one who had done it. Another girl stood up and claimed it was her doing. Then another. Soon ten or twelve girls were standing by their beds, all in nightgowns, claiming to have stolen the clanger.

  The priest’s neck was apple red, his cheeks were throbbing. He told everyone to line up. Then he told them to hold out their hands. Four times he went down the line, three strikes of the strap to each hand of each child.

  Elinor struck a match and brought the flame to the bowl of herbs. Languorously, the smoke curled upward. Elinor cupped the smoke over her head and down her body. She nodded toward the east, west, north, and south. She thanked the Creator for Victoria’s safe passage and for her own journey through the last night. She sucked in the sweet scent and leaned back in her chair.

  Fingers caressing her palms, Elinor strolled toward the pond. She eased her body onto the bench. She untied her laces, pulled off her shoes and socks. She stared at her stubby toes, wiggled and stretched them. She was missing the baby toe on her right foot; it had never been there. The soles of her feet were more tender now than in the days when she ran everywhere barefoot. At least she didn’t have bunions like Louise.

  She curled her toes into the dry, scratchy soil, rubbed the bottoms of her feet against each other. Soon her feet would be able to rest.

  36

  Elinor inched herself to the edge of the rocker. Her arms shook and trembled so badly when she tried to stand up that she decided to wait for Louise. Louise returned with towels and soap, a basin of warm water. She spread a towel on the bed. She slipped her arms behind her mother’s back and pulled her from the rocker.

  “What is going on with that business in the east of the city?” Elinor asked as Louise pulled the nightgown over her head.

  “Which business?”

  “That … that business about building an amusement park on a burial site of our ancestors.”

  “It’s stalled. It’s not certain it’s a burial site. But some Indians are digging in their heels until we know for sure.”

  Elinor grunted. “Good. That’s as it should be. We need more people like that. People doing what Piapot and Poundmaker did a hundred years ago. They understood the lies, the injustices that were being heaped on our people.”

  Louise squeezed the washcloth into the water, lathered it with lemon-scented soap. She worked the washcloth around the fingers of Elinor’s left hand, over her wrist, and up to her shoulder.

  “I met him once,” Elinor said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Piapot. He was a wily and fearless one. Even though he was short, he seemed tall.”

  Piapot, Elinor said, tried to interfere with Macdonald’s plan to build a railway across the south of the province, through Indian hunting lands. He got braves to pitch tents in the railway’s path. He wasn’t in a hurry to sign Treaty Four. He wanted to wait until there was a better deal on the table. He finally had to give in because so many Indians were starving and the government had p
romised to give them food if they signed.

  “Did you tell your children about those days?” Elinor asked.

  “Probably not as much as you think I should have.”

  Elinor swatted at Louise’s hand. She grabbed the washcloth and threw it across the room. She almost threw the basin of water at her daughter, but didn’t want to risk her own things getting wet.

  “You get me so mad,” Elinor said. “Who do you think is going to look out for our people if we don’t? Do you think governments and whites will do it?” Elinor pointed at the towel, told Louise to give it to her and to get out of the room.

  “I’m not leaving,” Louise said. “You’ve had your outburst and in another minute you’ll be exhausted and falling over.”

  Elinor grunted, pressed her arms to her sides and shoved out her bottom lip.

  “You’re being stubborn,” Louise said.

  “And you’re not?”

  Louise said she’d bought Elinor a new blouse, skirt, and sweater; she asked if Elinor wanted to see them.

  “You’re trying to bribe me now?”

  “No. Do you want to see them?”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  Louise took the basin of water, washcloth, and towel and left the room.

  Elinor draped her gown over her shoulders. It was stupid arguing with Louise. Even though she was her mother, she did not understand her. There was something about Louise that she had never been able to put her finger on. And now she was running out of time to do that. She stretched out her legs. So many bruises. She ran her finger along the length of the long scar on her right calf and sighed. So many scars. Louise had scars, too; hers were on the inside.

  “Here they are,” Louise said. “What do you think?” She held up a pale yellow long-sleeved blouse, a navy blue skirt, and a black-and-blue sweater with purple and yellow flowers down the front panels.

  Elinor stared at Louise, the clothes draped over her arms, the cautious smile on her face. For a fleeting moment she saw a young girl, ten years old, trying to please her mother. But she was hidden behind the clothing. That was it. She was hiding. Elinor’s vision blurred. Her body was shaking inside. Louise had been hiding something all her life. That was the reason for her rigidity and stiffness, like the shell of a turtle. Elinor swallowed hard; she didn’t want Louise to see her crying. How could she, Elinor, her mother, have not understood that? All this time pining after Bright Eyes, when it was the daughter standing in front of her who most needed her help.

  Elinor smiled and said the clothes were lovely. She slid from the bed, rested her hand on Louise’s shoulder, and stepped into the skirt. Louise drew the blouse around Elinor, did up the buttons, and stepped back to look at her mother. Elinor rubbed her hands over the soft fabric of the shirt, then down the folds of the skirt.

  “They’re lovely. You can bury me in them.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’ve been thinking these past few minutes,” Elinor said. “I hate that it has taken me so long to see it. Yes, we need to protect the graves of our ancestors. Even more important, we must care for the living.” She patted her daughter’s cheek. “You’re afraid of something, Louise. I think you’ve been afraid for most of your life.” Elinor shuffled to her rocker while Louise fluffed the pillows on the bed, wiped crumbs from the sheets.

  “Everybody has things they’re afraid of,” Louise said. She was bent over Elinor’s bed, pulling the blanket over the pillows.

  “Yes, but your fear is different from that of most people.”

  Louise turned to Elinor. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Elinor fingered the buttons on her new sweater. She didn’t believe her daughter. Lawyers were trained in bluffing. After a while they didn’t even know they were doing it.

  “It’s a lovely sweater,” she said.

  As Louise closed the fridge door, one of the eggs slipped from her grasp and splattered onto the floor. Bright yellow goop flecked with brown shell. She cursed the slithery resistance of the egg white as she tried to wipe it up. She was irritated; she hated when her mother thought she knew Louise better than Louise knew herself. Of course she was fearful and worried, more so in the past few days. Who wouldn’t be? She feared Elinor would die before Victoria arrived. Or that Victoria might have a heart attack en route and never get to Saskatchewan. And she had doubts that Victoria was who she claimed to be. She knew too well from her work how slippery and deceptive people could be. How they could prey on those who were weakened, those with deep and grave yearnings.

  There were always fears brought on by her work. Certain judges were scarier than others, the ones who thought women should be in the kitchen, not the courtroom. They tried to hide their sentiments, but they leaked out in little ways — a scowl, a turning away, a comment about her attire (never anything said about what her male colleagues were wearing). But she knew these were not the fears her mother was thinking of.

  Her mother sensed Louise’s other fear, the one she’d lived with most of her life. Like a cowlick, a limp, a stammer, much of the time she barely noticed the thing. So deeply buried was that fear, she sometimes wondered if the event that spawned it had occurred at all.

  Elinor chuckled. “I don’t think Victoria will care whether or not the floors are clean.”

  Louise, squatting on the floor, wrestling with the egg white, said she wasn’t doing it for Victoria. She kept her eyes on the floor when she asked her mother what fear she had been speaking of.

  “Not for me to say. Just a sense I have. Whatever it is, you’ve done well with hiding it all your life.”

  Louise dropped bread into the toaster, took the egg from the hot water. She tapped the shell of the egg with a knife, scraped the blade through to the other side and scooped out the contents. She placed the bowl in front of her mother, along with butter, salt, and pepper.

  Elinor dropped a large gob of butter on the egg, sprinkled it vigorously with salt and pepper. She chased bits of egg around in the bowl and seemed prepared to do it for some time until Louise gave her a spoon instead of the fork.

  Elinor ate slowly, eyes closed as she chewed. She nibbled at the end of a strip of bacon. For a time, head drooped to her chest, she ate nothing.

  “Don’t you want to be free of it? Don’t you want me to go to my grave in peace?” Elinor asked. She stuck out her tongue, grabbed the chunk of bacon off of it, and wiped it on the plate.

  She’s not going to let go of this one, Louise thought.

  “How’s that friend of yours?” Elinor asked. “What’s her name? That one who worked in the café with you?”

  “Mary? You mean Mary.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not so good.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Louise flipped through the pages of a recipe book.

  “I’ll bet she knows what you’re scared of.”

  Louise wanted to shout at her mother to let it go. She didn’t see how telling her mother the secret she and Mary shared, had shared for forty years, would send Elinor to her grave in peace.

  Louise turned to her mother. “I’m sorry I left you,” Louise said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Elinor shrugged her shoulders. “That’s in the past. As much as I have yearned to meet Victoria, I can see that what is most important before I die is for you to be free of what you have been hiding for so long. Why do you not want to tell it to me? If Mary knows, why can’t your own mother know?”

  Louise stared at the mixing bowl and the cup of white flour that she was readying to spill into the bowl. So pure and fine. So simple. She yearned for simplicity. She dumped the flour into the bowl and turned to her mother.

  “You may be right about this. I do want to honour your request. Except it’s not a nice thing. It’s a horrid thing. Nothing to be proud of. However much time you have left, I want it to be good — happy and easy. Let me give you that. So much time has been lost, wasted, between us. I see that now.”

 
; Elinor extended her fingers, picked at the nail of her left thumb, then looked into her palms for a long time.

  “You’re forgetting who I am, Rose Louise. I have survived residential school, the theft of my first-born, the loss of babies, the murder of my husband. It doesn’t get much worse than that.” She pushed her chair from the table and her body swayed as she attempted to move from sitting to standing.

  Louise rushed to her side.

  “After Victoria leaves, you will tell me. I want that for you. And I’m still your mother.”

  Louise slipped an arm under her mother’s. “I’ll think about it.”

  Elinor slapped Louise’s hand. “No. You will plan how and when you are going to tell me. And you’ll hope I don’t die before you get to it.”

  They shuffled from the kitchen to Louise’s study, where Louise had set up a cot for her mother.

  Louise drew a blanket over her mother, tucked it beneath her legs, over her shoulders.

  “Maybe when I wake up she’ll be here,” Elinor said.

  “Let’s hope,” Louise said. Mostly, she hoped her mother would wake up from this sleep. “She did say she was trying for today.”

  Louise grabbed the foot-high weed at its base and tugged. With one yank, the plant’s six-inch white root let go. She pulled a couple of others of the same kind, tossed them onto the pile. The weeds whose foliage spread flat to the earth rather than standing upright were less co-operative. She wiggled her fingers under the crown of the plant to find something to grab on to. She yanked hard, then harder. The head of the plant tore away but the weed stayed rooted amongst the red and purple zinnia plants.

  She stood up to straighten the stiffness in her knees and back. Weeds were like humans. Some were agreeable and easily extracted. Others, prickly and thorny, were entrenched and stubborn. Like her mother.