by Thomas King
Most of the books that Karen brought by were about Indians. Histories, autobiographies, memoirs of writers who had gone west or who had lived with a particular tribe, romances of one sort or another. Eli tried to hint that he had no objection to a Western or another New Woman novel, and Karen would laugh and pull another book out of her bag. Magic.
“You have to read this one, Eli. It’s about the Blackfoot.”
What amazed Eli was that there were so many.
Eli settled into the couch and opened the novel. The plot was simple enough. A young woman from the east, who had lived a sheltered life, had come west to join her fiance, only to find that the young man had been killed by Indians. Distraught, she threw herself on his grave, had a good cry, packed her bags, and headed back east. Just beyond the town, where the road wound its way through a narrow pass, the stagecoach was attacked by Indians led by the most notorious Indian in the territory, the Mysterious Warrior. The Indians killed the driver and the guard and one of the passengers, an older man who, perceiving the young woman to be in danger, drew a pistol in her defense. Trembling and alone, the woman, whose name was Annabelle, huddled on the ground waiting for death. But instead of being scalped as she had supposed, the Mysterious Warrior picked her up, put her on his horse beside him, and galloped away.
Eli got up and put a pot of water on. The light was beginning to fade. It was junk and he knew it, but he liked Westerns. It was like . . . eating potato chips. They weren’t good for you, but no one said they were. Beyond the river and through the trees, Eli could see the prairies, and he chuckled as he imagined for a moment galloping through the tall grass on a glistening black horse with Karen flung across the saddle. At first, she lay there, looking up at him with wondering eyes, and then she was laughing and throwing books into the air and shouting, “Read this one, read this one.”
And then the horse stumbled.
Eli poured the water over the tea bag and went back to the couch. He took off his shoes and stretched out, a large pillow behind his shoulders, and opened the book.
Chapter four.
Karen liked the idea that Eli was Indian, and she forgave him, she said, his pedestrian taste in reading, and at the end of the summer, after Karen had come back from an extended vacation in France with her family, she and Eli moved in together.
Actually, Eli moved in with Karen. It had always been obvious that Karen had money, and moving from his fourth-floor studio walk-up into Karen’s brownstone just off Avenue Road reminded him of the distance the two of them had crossed. The flat was simple enough and there was no conspicuous show of wealth, but even Eli could tell that the rugs on the floor were Persians and the paintings and prints on the walls were not the cheap reproductions that the university bookstore sold.
“That one is by A. Y. Jackson. The other is by Tom Thomson. What do you think?”
“They’re great.”
“It’s the light. It makes the land look . . . mystical.”
“They’re great.”
That first night in bed, surrounded by the rugs and the paintings and the books, Karen rolled on top of Eli, straddled him, and held his arms down by the wrists. “You know what you are?” she said, moving against him slowly. “You’re my Mystic Warrior.” And she pushed down hard as she said it.
The Indian’s name was Iron Eyes, and his family had been killed by whites. He was sworn to stop western expansion onto his people’s land and he had spared Annabelle’s life because he wanted her to see that Indians were human beings, too.
“Iron Eyes will not hurt you. You will go free. Tell the chiefs who watch the sun set that Iron Eyes wishes to live in peace.”
But before she could be released, Annabelle had to spend some time in the camp. At first she thought it was the dirtiest place on earth. The tepees smelled, the people smelled, the food smelled, the dogs smelled. The Indian women resented her and the men kept casting lewd glances in her direction. After a few weeks in camp, her dress was in shreds and her hair, which had been delicately piled on her head, was hanging across her face in matted lumps. Worse, she began to smell.
Finally, Iron Eyes’s sister, a beautiful woman named Hist, took Annabelle under her wing, showed her where she could bathe in the river, gave her some buckskin clothes to wear, and combed and braided her hair for her. When Annabelle and Hist came back into the camp that evening, Iron Eyes, who was practicing hand-to-hand combat with some of his men, stopped what he was doing, walked over to where Annabelle and Hist were standing, and took Annabelle’s hands in his.
Eli closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his stomach. He was going to sleep. Not a good sign. He rolled off the couch and went back to the kitchen. The water was still hot, and he poured himself a second cup. As he came back into the living room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Tall, dark, overweight, gray. He smiled at his reflection and tightened his chest muscles for a moment. It didn’t help.
Eli adjusted the pillow, sipped at the hot tea, and opened the book.
Chapter eight.
They had lived together for two years before Eli met Karen’s parents. Karen assured him that her mother and father would love him as much as she did, and Eli was sure that she was wrong.
“Mom and Herb are going to the cottage we have in the Laurentians. You’ll love it.”
Eli knew he was not going to love it, but he smiled and pretended that he was looking forward to the trip.
The cottage was not a cottage at all. It was a four-bedroom house set on a lake. When Eli and Karen arrived, Karen’s father was up on a ladder painting a shutter.
“Go on in,” he shouted. “Maryanne’s waiting for you. I’m Herb. You must be Eli. Nice to meet you.”
Karen’s mother greeted him as if he were a long lost son, and while Karen helped her mother in the kitchen, Eli wandered back outside and watched Herb touch up the corners of the shutter.
“Looks good,” he shouted.
“Thought you Indians had keen eyes.” Herb laughed, and he hung the bucket on the ladder and came down.
Karen had told Eli that they would probably have to have separate rooms. Her parents knew they were living together, but at the cottage they might have to compromise.
And that was another pleasant surprise. Not only did Karen’s father seem like a regular guy, but when Eli took the bags upstairs, he found Karen in a large, airy room with a view of the water, sitting in the middle of a bed.
“Nice. Where do I sleep?”
Karen patted the bed. “Here.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re progressive. Mom said that this was the twentieth century.”
Eli dropped the bags, climbed on the bed, and rolled Karen on her back.
“But we can’t do anything.”
“What?”
“God, Eli. My parents. What if they heard?”
Herb was an avid reader. The cottage was stuffed with books, most of them mysteries and Westerns.
“Maryanne indulges me. I mean, this stuff is junk, but, well, hell, I love it. You read Westerns?”
“You bet.”
“Those sleazy little cowboy and Indian shoot-’em-ups?”
“Yes,” Eli admitted. “Those are the ones.”
Herb went to a shelf and took down a book. “Here, I’ll bet you haven’t read this one yet.”
That evening, Eli snuggled against Karen and slid his hand under her nightgown. “I really like your parents,” he said, finding her nipple. “They won’t hear us.”
“You’re awful,” she said, and she pulled Eli’s shorts down in one decisive jerk.
Afterward, as Eli was on the verge of sleep, Karen kissed his chest and drew herself in against his body. “So,” she said in a sleepy whisper that seemed to come from miles away, “when do I get to meet your parents?”
Lionel paid for the gas and slid behind the wheel. “I’ve got lots of options,” he said.
“You r
an out of options years ago,” said Norma. “The boy can use all the help he can get.”
“She’s just kidding,” said Lionel.
“No, I’m not.”
“I don’t need any help.”
“You should see some of the mistakes he’s made. Would make your teeth fall out.”
Lionel tried to brush Norma off with a wave of his hand.“Doing just fine.”
In the rearview mirror, Lionel could see the old Indians talking to each other, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Okay,” said the Lone Ranger. “We can do that.”
“Look,” said Lionel, “maybe you should save a whale or something like that.”
“Whales don’t need help,” said Ishmael.
“No,” said Robinson Crusoe. “It’s human beings that need help.”
“So we’re going to help a human being,” said Hawkeye.
“That’s right, grandson,” said the Lone Ranger. “We’re going to help you.”
Lionel opened his mouth just as the Lone Ranger leaned forward and patted his shoulder. “No need to thank us, grandson,” he said. “Where do we start?”
“Well,” said Norma, “you can start with his jacket. The one he has to wear to work is real ugly.”
“Oh, boy,” said the Lone Ranger. “That’s a good start all right.”
“Yes,” said Ishmael. “And we have just the thing.”
Actually, three mistakes wasn’t so bad. Lionel had made a great many good choices. He had chosen Alberta. Nothing wrong with that choice. Even Norma liked her. Lionel could even remember the evening he had decided that Alberta was the woman for him.
It had been a Tuesday evening, four years ago in June. He had come home from work and called his mother to tell her about the big sale Bursum’s had on stereos.
“Don’t need a stereo, honey,” Camelot said. “That RCA you gave us for Christmas still works real good.”
Lionel couldn’t remember giving his parents an RCA. “Is that the one that Grandpa had in his basement?”
“Oh,” said his mother. “Maybe it is.”
“It’s getting kind of old.”
“So are we,” said Camelot. “Latisha was out this weekend. Said she hadn’t seen you for a while.”
“You know the television business.”
“I’m making Hawaiian Curdle Surprise this Friday. You can’t get food like this in town.”
“What’s in it?”
“It’s a surprise. Your father can’t wait to taste it.”
“Alberta’s coming out this weekend. We’ll probably go over to Waterton. Or maybe Banff.”
“Bring her out to the house. She’s a wonderful woman. Wouldn’t mind her for a daughter-in-law. Your father likes her, too.”
“I think we’re going to Banff.”
“If you’re serious about Alberta, you should bring her home so we can meet her.”
“You’ve known her all your life.”
“It’s not the same.”
Actually, it hadn’t been a bad idea, after Lionel thought about it for a while. They could have dinner at his parents’ house. Go for a walk on the prairies in the evening. The next day they could drive to Banff, maybe take in the hot springs. And at the right moment, Lionel could turn the conversation around to relationships and marriage. He had debated getting a ring, but decided there was no need to rush things. After all, Alberta might want to help pick it out. She was an independent woman. She might even insist on sharing the cost. But whatever happened, the dinner at his mother’s would get things off to a good start.
“The jacket is a real good start,” said Ishmael.
Up ahead, Lionel could see the sign for Blossom. He’d drop the old Indians off at the Lodge, take Norma home, go back to his apartment, and watch some television. Alberta might have phoned. She might even be in town. Tomorrow he would be forty, and by that evening, if everything went as planned, he’d have his life back on track.
“He sells televisions,” Norma was telling the Indians. “His birthday is tomorrow. He’s going to be forty, and he sells televisions.”
“Birthday?” said the Lone Ranger. “I guess we got to sing that song.”
“No need,” said Lionel. “It’s not until tomorrow.”
“No,” said the Lone Ranger. “We better start now. No telling what’s going to happen tomorrow.”
The turnoff for Blossom was just ahead. Lionel pressed down hard on the accelerator.
* * *
Things got off to a bad start. Alberta was happy enough to eat at his parents’ house, but the minute Lionel stepped in the door, his father started in.
“You still working at that toilet store?”
“Television store.”
“Don’t see much of you.”
“It’s long hours, but it pays good.”
“Don’t see much of you.”
The Hawaiian Curdle Surprise was a big surprise. Lionel didn’t know exactly what was in it, but he was able to identify the pineapple and the fish.
“It’s delicious,” Alberta told his mother.
“I got the recipe out of the cookbook on Hawaiian cuisine that Harley gave me for Christmas. You’re supposed to use octopus for the stock, but where are you going to find octopus around here?”
“It’s really good.”
Lionel fished around in the stew and found another piece of pineapple. “Bill’s Fish Market might have octopus.”
“Moose works just as well,” said his mother.
By the time they had finished dinner, the wind had come up. Lionel could hear the dirt hitting the windows and the sides of the house.
“Harley and I are going for a walk,” his mother said, looking at her husband. “Why don’t you two just stay here and relax.”
“A walk?” his father said.
“We always go for a walk after dinner.”
“In this wind?”
“It’s okay, Mom,” said Lionel.
“No,” said Alberta, “it sounds like a great idea. Why don’t we all go.”
“In this wind?” said Lionel.
By the time Lionel got to the Lodge, Norma and the Indians had sung four choruses of “Happy Birthday.” Lionel had driven as fast as he could, run yellow lights, cut off corners, passed cars on two-lane streets. Whatever else the old Indians were, they weren’t singers. All the way through town, their voices had twisted and turned, sounding for all the world like cats trying to get out of a tin can.
“Boy,” said the Lone Ranger, “that was some good singing. That was a good way to start. It made me feel good all over.”
“You sing real good,” said Norma. “After you fix the world, maybe you want to come out and visit.”
“That would be good,” said the Lone Ranger.
“I’m going to be setting up my lodge tomorrow.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Ishmael. “We should do that.”
“Will our grandson be there?” said Hawkeye.
“What about it, Lionel?” And Norma stabbed him in the ribs again.
“Here’s the Lodge,” said Lionel, pulling under the canopy at the front door, jumping out, and opening the back door. “Sure was nice to meet you.”
“You got a favorite color?” asked Ishmael.
“A color that makes you feel good?” said Robinson Crusoe.
“I like red, myself,” said Hawkeye.
Lionel opened the front door of the Lodge for the Indians.“You have a safe trip. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”
“Tomorrow,” said the Lone Ranger. And the Indians walked past Lionel single file into the lobby of the hotel.
“Tomorrow,” said Lionel after they all got back from the walk and his parents had gone to bed, “I thought we could go to Banff.” There were pieces of grit in Lionel’s hair and in his nose. As he talked, he casually tried to scoop his ear out. “We could go to the hot springs
or walk around or something. Anything you want to do.” Lionel put his hand across the back of the sofa, the fingers almost touching Alberta’s shoulder.
“Your parents are nice.”
“Nobody cooks like Mom.”
“That’s mean. Your mother’s very adventurous.”
“No, I mean it. She’s a great cook.”
Lionel moved his hand so that he could rub Alberta’s shoulder with one finger. “So, tomorrow we drive to Banff. Stay the night.” Lionel leaned forward as if he was stretching and moved closer. “It’ll give us a chance to talk.”
By the time Lionel got up the next morning, his mother and father were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
“Thought you wanted to get an early start,” his mother said.
“No rush.”
“Tell Alberta when she uses the shower to watch the hot water handle. Harley hasn’t fixed it yet.”
“She like waffles?” asked Lionel’s father. “I’m making waffles today. Belgian waffles. Camelot got this great recipe from Latisha.”
“She had to go back to Calgary.”
“Alberta?”
“She forgot about a meeting.”
“Today’s Saturday, son.”
Camelot frowned at her husband. “You two have a fight?”
“Nope.”
“That’s too bad, honey. Banff is beautiful this time of year. And romantic, too.”
Lionel’s father got the waffle iron down and plugged it in.“You want some waffles?”
“Sure.”
“Could use a hand around the house.”
“Probably should get back,” said Lionel, cutting a hunk of butter off the block. “Bursum’s getting a big shipment today. I can always use the money.”
“It’s not much. Just a little plumbing and a hand with the front porch.”
“We got any maple syrup?”
* * *
Lionel unlocked the door to his apartment. Inside, the air was cool, the room dark.
The old Indians.
Lionel could still hear their singsong voices in his head. Happy birthday. Happy birthday, as if something was coming apart, as if he had unknowingly made yet another mistake.
Lionel squeezed past the Formica table, fumbled his way into the easy chair, and found the remote control without ever having to turn on the lights.