I pace around my desk, worried about the arrival of my Bishop. These children have received more understanding of life since they have been under my care than their parents could ever provide. They have learned what it is like to sleep on a bed. They have learned to repeat their prayers from memory. They have learned the importance of fearing God. Ah, yes, the list I will report to my Bishop. I imagine the praise I will receive and if I continue to work so very hard, perhaps, just perhaps they will move me out of this school and onto the higher things I am destined for.
6
A small knock at the door brings me back to reality.
Sister Mary Rose enters with her head bowed and says, “Bishop LaFlamme’s carriage is arriving. We are preparing the children to stand along the entrance steps.”
“Very good! Very good! Let us go, Sister, and greet our most Holy Superior!”
Strutting down the hallway I realize that I am excited. I quiver with the anticipation of being able to kneel before my Bishop and kiss his Holy ring. My body is charged and I feel stirrings beneath my black robe. I am completely lost in this moment. This is my moment to be noticed. This is my time. I have toiled and laboured at this school for one full year. I want my report to glow in the presence of my superior. I am filled with the glory of this moment, but don’t want anyone to notice my carnal enthusiasm.
Bishop LaFlamme steps down from the creaking carriage and I fall to one knee. I cross myself and whisper, “Your Excellency. Bienvenue à notre humble école.” I reach for the Bishop’s ringed hand and kiss the ring over and over again. I am lost in this great trilogy of man and his superior and God. I cannot stop kissing this ring until the Bishop wrestles his hand out of my grasp.
“Arrête!” whispers Bishop LaFlamme. “Cesse de faire ça immédiatement.” His eyes question mine.
“Pardonnez-moi, Votre Grâce,” I mutter rising to my feet.
“Children!” I call out as I straighten my black robe and put my large cross back into place. “Children! Say hello to His Excellency, Bishop LaFlamme!”
I nod to Sister Mary Rose, signalling her to slap the oldest children’s lower backs. She leads the group in a merry, “Salut! Bonjour, Votre Excellence!” and all the children start to sing, “Full in the Panting Heart of Rome.”
It sounds absolutely terrible. The voices of the children reel and lurch over the opening words and as they reach the first refrain of, “God bless our Pope, God bless our Pope, God bless our Pope, the Great, the Good.”
I race ahead and demand that the singing stop, raising both of my hands before this approaching train wreck. Out of the crowd steps Margarite and starts to do jumping jacks. Suzanne steps up beside her; then Therese joins her sisters. They slap their hands and feet together. The rest of the children join in. I have become the Ringmaster to these unstoppable savages. I taste the coals of hell dancing on my tongue.
My planned respectful greeting of Bishop LaFlamme has become a circus. There are snorts and chuckles and soon the boys in their woollen grey pants are rolling on the ground. Somersaults on one side and jumping jacks on the other.
“You see this, Bishop? This is what I must tolerate every day!” I yell as I reach for Margarite. She slides from my grasp and runs towards the Bishop. I lunge after her. Margarite reaches for the Bishop’s gold robe at the same moment I raise my hand as far as my reach allows. I aim my fist. My arm descends towards the insufferable little black target when I feel the Bishop’s hand wrap itself around my wrist. I freeze, become a statue with one raised fist. Silence fills the school yard.
Calmly, ever so calmly, the Bishop glares at me and whispers, “Stop!” Bishop LaFlamme slides the palm of his hand about Margarite’s face and turns her eyes towards his. He gasps at the bruises and moans when he sees her swollen tongue dangling from her mouth.
Time slows. Bishop LaFlamme sinks to his knees, cupping his hands on either side of Margarite’s cheeks. Between his tears, he mutters “Veuillez lui pardonner” and kisses each of her eyes. His compassionate face hardens as he looks at me and nods towards the school.
7
I am sweating. My heart won’t stop racing and I fidget with the large rosary dangling from my neck. What am I to do, to say? Those damn little girls, all three of them. Nothing but trouble. Nothing but problems. My tribulation is them. I will explain that to him. He will understand. I sit myself behind my desk and clasp my hands together to form one large shaking fist. I feel my knees quivering and I can’t stop the nervous earthquake erupting from my body.
There is tapping at the door and Sister Mary Rose swings it open. Bishop LaFlamme enters the room, his back hunched. He walks with the careful steps of the elderly. I bolt from my chair, but he stops me before I’ve even risen. Sister Mary Rose gasps and turns sharply to leave the room. Bishop LaFlamme turns his head towards her and says firmly, “Stay!”
The Bishop makes his way behind my desk. Clearing his throat, he looks at Sister Mary Rose and me. We are like two black chess pawns dressed in our Catholic uniforms. A pair of black and white people, our faces blanched, our eyes trembling in fear.
Bishop LaFlamme clears his throat, “Explain yourself!”
I swallow hard. My Adam’s apple bobs.
“Your Excellency, this is not an easy post. I’ve worked hard, as has Sister Mary Rose to…” The Bishop raises his hand, signalling me to stop.
“You,” he points to Sister Mary Rose. “You tell me what is happening in this place. How does a tiny little girl, a child of God like all other children in this world end up with blackened eyes and a tongue hanging from her lips?”
“Discipline is required, Your Excellency,” whispers Sister Mary Rose. “Discipline and order. Some of the children, they just don’t seem to want to accept these things.” She lowers her eyes as she speaks.
“Discipline! The Lord talks about discipline, yes. He also speaks amply of love and compassion and of controlling your temper. Think of Proverbs 14:29.”
He turns to me. “You are a blight on our faith—shame! Shame on you!” Bishop LaFlamme stands by the window, surrounded by sunlight. “I will be taking that child back with me to the city. My staff will come and inspect this place weekly and various priests will come and inspect each child for bruising. If one child has but one small, singular bruise anywhere—and I mean anywhere—on their bodies, you will both be dismissed from the Catholic faith permanently!”
I draw a deep breath. “But your Excellency, you don’t understand how unruly they are. They are like animals. They don’t obey. They don’t do anything they are supposed to and little Margarite, the child you saw today—well she, she, she is a heathen creature!”
“You have taken Holy vows! Do you remember them?” asks the Bishop. “A vow, a solemn promise before and to God: Chastity, Poverty, and…yes, Obedience.”
He turns back to Sister Mary Rose. “Get me that little girl. Bring her to me now!”
Sister Mary Rose scurries from the room to fetch the little brat. I feel rebellion pouring into my veins. “Your Excellency, don’t take her. She has two sisters here. Shouldn’t we try to keep these children together?”
“Why?” mutters Bishop LaFlamme, “So you can continue to beat her? No!”
Bishop LaFlamme leans into me. I can feel the heat of his breath. “Not one bruise—understood?”
8
Margarite sits beside the Bishop on his way back to Winnipeg, her head bobbing up and down in rhythm with the clacking horse hooves. Bishop LaFlamme looks over to her and smiles. Margarite sends a crooked smile back to his dancing eyes.
“My little one, ma petite,” whispers the Bishop, “I will ensure your life will be without harm.” Bishop LaFlamme pats Margarite’s tiny hand.
“As our Great Lord is my witness, your life I will improve.” Bishop LaFlamme shakes his head once more. His thoughts travel back to when the Canadian government offered his Church the money to run these schools. The government had presented this schooling of little aboriginal children as a
great opportunity.
“Ah, Mon Dieu,” thinks Bishop LaFlamme. “It could have been something of beauty. But look at what we have done. Look at this little one next to me. Forgive us.”
Bishop LaFlamme squeezes Margarite’s hand.
“This child, I swear to you Lord, will make a difference.”
Bishop LaFlamme dreams of the life that he can give her. It will not be a fairy-tale life, but it will be a life that will not have fear and harm. He swears to himself, he will give to this child a life of security and understanding.
“I am an old, old man,” he says turning to Margarite, “but you my little one, ma petite, you will make me young again and give me a reason for living. I will give you a life that will make our Lord proud.” He places Margarite’s tiny hand into his and lifts her tiny palm to his mouth where he plants a tiny kiss of hope.
9
“‘Not one bruise…’ That idiot! He doesn’t know…How can he? He sits in Sacre Coeur day in and day out and has not one concept of what I have to deal with here. Not one bruise! I’ll make sure of that!” I slam my body into my chair, fatigued from the emotional stress of the last two hours.
“Sister Mary Rose!” I shout, “Venez ici! Maintenant!”
The heavy door scrapes open. “Oui?” whispers Sister Mary Rose.
I motion my long fingers towards the chair opposite me. “S’asseoir!”
Sister Mary Rose moves into the chair. It is as if by moving as gradually as possible, she hopes my residual anger will evaporate.
“Do you know who I am, Sister?”
Sister Mary Rose only stares directly at me.
“I am the number one graduate of Loyola. Number one! My father, he knew that the English would take over the world and he sent me to that school. I learned to read, write and speak English perfectly. Not one trace of an accent. And after that, do you know what I did? I became the number one graduate of Saint-Sulpice—number one! And this is where I am—some isolated back woods dumping ground in Northern Manitoba. Northern Manitoba! Dear God, no one on earth ever comes here by choice. Never by choice! Do you understand what I am saying, Sister?”
I sense the uncontrolled rage in my eyes. “I am more than this! I am better than this…this wasteland! This pigsty of little Indians and Eskimos and cross-breed Métis. I was destined for bigger things, better things!”
Sister Mary Rose slowly raises her head. I see her fear. “Oui, Père LePage?”
I regain my composure. “He said ‘no bruises’ and we will comply. How much wood is there for heating this maison de fous, this nuthouse?”
“I can check. I don’t know.”
“Well, I have an idea. Those little girls. Those sisters of Margarite. It’s time that they paid for the sins of their sister. They can chop all the wood that we need here! It can be their personal act of contrition!”
“But, Father LePage, they are but young girls. It would not be fair…”
“Fair! Get them in here. Let me tell them of their new duty.”
Sister Mary Rose stands and slowly repeats the words of the Bishop, “Lui pardonner, Dieu.”
10
“That man in the gold dress took her. Now what happens to us?” I ask. “Puhuliak, now what happens?”
“That’s not my name. You know it’s Suzanne. That’s what you call me here—got it? And you, you are Therese. In this place that is who we are. We do what they tell us. We don’t make a sound and then we are not taken away by an old man in a gold dress. We are together. We help each other. It’s the way our mothers taught us. No isuigusuttuq. Understood?”
Me, Therese, I was always in the middle of everything. The one who had to do whatever either sister wanted, the middle girl.
“Of course, angajuk—I mean Suzanne. Of course. How long do we have to sit in these chairs? Where is Father LePage? Hikwa called him ‘siquttipaa’,” I giggle.
“Don’t you even whisper that! Don’t speak our language when we are here. You know what happens if they catch us,” says Suzanne as she reaches into her own mouth and pulls on her own tongue and crosses her eyes.
I can’t help but burst into laughter. Suzanne chuckles and reaches for my hand.
“We are here. We are together. Nothing will break us apart. One day we’ll get out of here and we’ll find our Hikwa and we will all go home.” Suzanne tightens the grip on my hand. “But for now, we speak their tongues. This English and this French and we are good students. We will get out of here, Angavidiak—we will.”
I turn my head towards her. Our eyes shine with the tears of trust. The same water in our eyes. We nod together.
Our moment is broken by the whoosh of the office door.
“Come!” demands Father LePage. “Quick!”
Suzanne and I stand like tin soldiers in front of him. We are as tall as we can make ourselves while our knees tremble like Arctic moss leaves on a cool, windy, spring day.
“Girls—I have a special work order for you. This is a big place and it needs much heat. Do either of you understand me?” asks Father LePage as he leans in so close that we each can smell his horrible breath. We see his blackened teeth and we each move back slightly.
“Don’t shrink away from me! Oh little ones, you will do the most wonderful act of contrition. One that I believe has been sent to me from Sainte Louise de Marillac herself. Not that either of you little heathens would know her but still let us say this is almost a small miracle. Something you may understand.”
Father LePage reaches behind his desk and lifts an axe in each of his hands.
“From now on my little darlings, you will help with the cutting of the wood for this place. You can attend school in the mornings only but will be out in the forest from noon until the supper hour. It will be good for you. It will make you even stronger than you already are. Here, my little ones. Here are your very own, personal crosses of redemption! Put out your hands!”
Father LePage walks towards us and our trembling hands reach up for our axes. Leaving the office I hear Suzanne whisper, ““Lui pardonner, Dieu.”
11
Slap, chop. Slap, chop. Whoosh. Another tree slides to the ground. Bam. Bump. Beside me I can hear my sister’s echoing hatchet. Slap, chop, slap, chop, whoooossshhh. Over and over again, me and Suzanne are ricocheting woodsmen.
In the past few weeks, a young white man named Joshua has driven us here in his Ford half-ton black truck. We help him lift the trees part way onto the truck bed and he hauls them a few yards down the road. Joshua will chop the chunks into blocks to be used in the fires of the residential school.
I had thought I would hate this but I don’t. I don’t mind the work no matter what the weather. It means I don’t have to sit in that desk in the afternoon. We get to spend time outside. Outside, where we belong. Where we feel free. Sister Mary Rose sneaks us a snack some days. Extra bits of cheese and bread get tucked inside our cloth coats as we leave the school in Joshua’s truck at noon.
Joshua is the only white boy I’ve ever talked to. He asks us all kinds of questions and when we answer he doesn’t understand.
“How old are you two?”
“What’s that mean?” I ask him.
“You know, how many years have you been alive? You look like you’re around fourteen or so. I mean, you’re skinny and that one next to you isn’t. But you both look around the same age.”
“Suzanne? What does he mean?” I ask looking at Suzanne who is falling asleep in the truck, her head bouncing against the passenger window. She is the elder sister, the anajuk. It is what I have been taught. The elder is to answer questions. I dig my sharp elbow into her ribs.
“AAIII—what’s with you?” Suzanne screams as she starts to cough. “What are you doing to me?”
“He wants to know how old we are. What does that mean?” I am stuck in the middle of the truck seat. The shift stick knocking on the insides of each of my knees. The road is bumpy and I’m always the one in the centre of his questions.
“Oh,
that—I am, in your years, going on fifteen. Therese is coming up to fourteen. We were each born when the first snows came. In your time it is called ‘fall.’ We don’t mark our time in months and year numbers like you do. We count seasons. But not anymore.” Suzanne knows she has said too much. Suzanne knows she isn’t supposed to compare us with the whites. At least, not out loud.
I whisper to her, “Suzanne, remember we are good students. We will learn to talk in their French and their English and we will stay out of trouble. Just laugh now. He won’t get it anyway. Just laugh.” Joshua joins us.
“Ha—seasons. That’s funny. How long you been at the school?”
How old? How long? How many more questions is he going to ask? We were taught that we never ask a stranger questions—ever! We were taught that they speak and we listen. We don’t ever once ask anything even if we want to. We know that the right words will come and we will get our answers in a different way. There are many ways to find the answers. Watching is best.
The stick shift is bouncing between my thighs and I push my back hard against the seat. She has to say the words. Not me.
“We both came to the school when we were around nine years old.” Suzanne has picked a number.
“That’s a motherfuckin’ long time to have put into that hell hole,” says Joshua as he lights a home-rolled cigarette. For some reason the smell doesn’t bother me here. Not like when Dad came home full of this stench. In Joshua’s truck the smell makes sense.
“And you’ve been cuttin’ trees for the last—how long?”
“About four winter seasons now,” sighs Suzanne. “About that.”
“Shit, you girls are tougher than most of the guys I know. Hey, you want a smoke?” Joshua hands his tobacco pouch to me. I hand it over to Suzanne. She hands it back to me, saying, “No thanks.” I take a cigarette out of the pouch and squeeze it softly. Suzanne shakes her head, but I keep playing with it.
“Ah, take it,” says Joshua, his own cigarette splashing ashes all over the truck cab. “You never know when you might want to have a puff. Here, take some matches too.” I put the cigarette and matches inside the only bra I own. Joshua bursts out laughing. Suzanne and I join in. This is the most fun we’ve had with Joshua since he’s been driving us.
Annie Muktuk and Other Stories Page 14