Walking Through and Other Stories

by Francine Fleming

  His brows came together in a tight frown when he contemplated his chances of making it out of the bay before the freeze-up. He instinctively reached for the handkerchief in his coat pocket and caressed its embroidered edge. His fingers felt for the embossed initials of his love, waiting for him back at home. She said she would wait. He blinked rapidly and released the handkerchief. She said she would. He fixed his gaze ahead and lengthened his stride. She will. She will. Wait for me, my love.

  A brass band, their brown faces contrasted against white parkas, boarded the ship and began playing. A Moravian by birth, Brunner recognized the hymn. Brunner was not himself a religious man. Nor did he care much for what the church was doing among these far north peoples, but the patron churches paid him well and never tried to cheat him out of his profits.

  Brunner had almost reached the boys, when he had to pull up and make way for a girl chasing after a silver-coated puppy skittering among the crates of supplies now cluttering the deck. A pregnant woman holding a toddler with a large birth mark around one eye, stepped in front of Brunner and said something in Inuktitut. He shook his head and she switched to French, but he didn’t understand that either. He was too preoccupied to extract any meaning from her words.

  The woman followed Brunner’s stare and called out, “Oh—kee!” The boys stopped and the older one looked over his shoulder. Just then, Mueller appeared on deck and approached the boys, holding out small packages that could have contained sweets or jacks and, no doubt, the little bibles distributed by missionaries wherever they went. Mueller bent over and shook hands with both boys. Brunner cursed under his breath.

  The woman hiked the baby higher on her hip, which was no small feat with her belly jutting out as it was, and waddled over to Mueller. The smaller of the two boys tried without success to wrap his arms fully around the woman’s middle. Mueller smiled weakly and reached out to pat the baby’s cheek. His shoulders were stooped and his eye sockets looked dark and hollow against his pale skin. The tuba and trombone squawked from somewhere near the port side and Mueller coughed into his fist.

  Brunner sighed and turned away. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to the starboard railing. With his back to the wind, the fresh air no longer stung, but soothed his neck where the coarse fabric of his collar had chafed it. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it to his lips and inhaled deeply, but the scent of lavender had long disappeared. His heart filled with longing. He stood erect and surveyed the gray water, his eyes reaching for that place where the river spilled out into the bay, and beyond that, the ocean.

  The band played with more fervor and the villagers sang along in French. Brunner’s French was not that good, but the words came to him in his native Moravian.

  Our heavenly Fa-ther, source of love,

  to Thee our hearts we raise

  Thy all-sus-taining power we prove,

  and glad-ly sing Thy praise. A-men.

  The hymn carried Brunner back in time, to his homeland, before the war, before the sickness. He closed his eyes and imagined the Apolina slicing through the surf beyond Ungava Bay. I’m coming, my love.

  ***

  March 4, 1991

  Strauss shifted in his seat and adjusted his glasses.

  Suzette put down her teacup and frowned. She hadn’t discussed Wolf Point with anyone in over twenty years. The Northern Medicine people had showed her some grainy black and white photographs of a barren patch of tundra, hemmed in by rocky outcrops on one side and the bank of a placid river on the other.

  The interview came with an offer to fly her up there for a photo op, but she had panicked and lied to the Northern Medicine people that she was afraid of flying. For many months after that, Wolf Point had been for her the elephant in every room.

  Suzette’s heart raced and her lungs felt heavy as lead. Her hands were shaking so badly, she dared not raise the teacup to her lips. The flu pandemic of 1918 had scraped the people of Wolf Point from the earth, leaving her no roots to claim as her own. She was part of no tapestry, no family tree, and no circle of loved ones. Strauss was silent for a moment and Suzette detected a subtle movement of his eyes that seemed to acknowledge her discomfort.

  After a few beats passed, he drew in a deep breath and said, "With your permission, I’d like to exhume the remains of a young woman, named Anaaya.”

  He emphasized the name as if Suzette might recognize it. She had never learned the names of any of the Wolf Point settlement people, not even her birth mother’s. Suzette stared at her hands.

  Strauss said, “I have reason to believe I can get a good DNA sample from Anaaya’s remains, which could be used to isolate the flu virus and study it. I assure you, any remains exhumed will be laid to rest again according to whatever requirements you have."

  Requirements? She never knew this Anaaya. It was a strange thing to Suzette to be designated as keeper of all these bones. Her chest tightened like a fist and she coughed, long and hoarse.

  Strauss straightened. “Are you okay?’

  Suzette gestured towards a pitcher of water on the nightstand. Strauss reached over and poured her a drink. “Here,” he said, handing her the cup. “Shall I call the nurse?”

  “Thank-you. No.” She took a sip of water and said, “It’s just that every now and then my body likes to remind me why I’m here.” She cleared her throat and rested the Styrofoam cup in her petite lap, barely breathing, waiting for the painful spasms to subside. Three days of treatment had not fully doused the fire in her chest, but at least the coughing fits were shorter and less frequent. “There’s a bag over there on the floor. Would you please pass it to me?”

  Suzette patted a spot on the bed, right next to her hip and Strauss placed the black canvas duffle bag as directed. “Now, time for a treat.” Suzette rummaged through the bag and pulled out two packages. “I hope you like black licorice. It’s my favourite.”

  Strauss’ eyes moved from the candy to the glucometer and test strips lying on the nightstand and back to Suzette. She cocked-and-readied herself to shoot down any challenge to her licorice habit, but none came.

  She held out both packages and lifted her eyebrows. He smiled, pointed, and accepted a small handful of Good & Plenty candies. “Good choice. Love those,” she said, popping a few of the pink and white capsules into her mouth. “You know, you can tell a lot about a person from what kind of candy they like.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” Suzette grimaced. “That was a joke.” She fished a brown and black Allsorts candy from the other package and said, “Now, where were we? I think you were telling me about this…. Ana…Anana…”

  “Anaaya.”

  “Anaaya. Yes. So, who was she?” Suzette reached up to adjust her reading glasses with both hands in an attempt to hide the flush that was rising up her cheeks. Why should she be ashamed of not knowing? Or was it shame that she now showed an interest after a lifetime of indifference?

  Strauss said, “Well, what I know is that Anaaya was 22 years old when she became ill with the Spanish flu. She got sick in November of 1918 and died later that month.”

  Suzette remembered being 22. She was teaching in those days, but certain people in the Catholic school board didn’t take too well to her. She had to admit there must have been a grating irony to it—an Inuit woman, in rayon, floral prints and lipstick, teaching the sacraments to white children.

  With the Beaujoulds’ full support she had pursued her doctorate in education. When she wasn’t working or studying, she went out drinking and dancing with friends. Occasionally, she dated, but small-town men had small narrow minds. And now she was old, too old, for that fluff. The last thing she needed was an old fart to take care of.

  “Only 22?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Strauss. “She was quite a young woman, but I believe she had a husband and some children who also may have died from the flu.”

  Suzette said, “God, that’s awful, isn’t it? Can you imagine?” She wondered if Anaa
ya was related to her birth mother. In such a small community, it was likely. Had she assisted with Suzette’s birth? Perhaps it was Anaaya who brought her to Claude and Marie. Suzette licked at her dentures and a muscle under her eye twitched.

  Strauss leaned in and his voice became soft and intense. “We—my colleagues and I— believe her burial circumstances were different from the other victims at Wolf Point and that her body was well-preserved as a result.” He held his hands up in front of his chest, palms facing each other, fingertips touching. “According to the written report from Father Patrice Ammon who pastored the church at Suk-Luk, Anaaya’s body was discovered by missionaries.”

  “I see,” said Suzette, hungry to hear more.

  Strauss laced his fingers together and said, “Ammon’s records show that Anaaya was the last flu victim at the Wolf Point camp. Her husband and at least one of her children had also perished. He wrote that her other children were also sick and unlikely to survive. He was already quite ill by then, himself, and died before he could learn what became of them. “

  Suzette clucked her tongue and shook her head. “How very tragic,” she said, staring off into space.

  “I know,” said Strauss. He swallowed and allowed a moment of silence before continuing. “The bodies of most of the other Wolf Point victims were stored in two houses, but…” Strauss paused for a beat, as if weighing out the wisdom in elaborating. “There was a problem with dogs.”

  ***

  November 29, 1918 (Suk-Luk)

  “Dogs…. help… mother… dogs…. sick,” were the only words Claude Beaujould could understand between the boy’s shivers and frantic hiccups. The boy, who had staggered into Suk-Luk with a smaller boy, was now wrapped in a blanket and trying to tell Father Patrice Ammon something about his family. He gestured urgently with his small hands, pointing somewhere upriver. Rivulets of white salt stained his cheeks where tears had cut paths and dried up.

  The smaller of the two boys was also bundled in a wool blanket, his eyes wide with shock. Marie Beaujould was on her knees, rubbing his arms and back. Her movements were gentle, but Claude saw in her eyes a ferocious will, as though health and warmth and comfort could be transferred through her gaze.

  She looked up at Tuuq and asked, “Can I please have some water?”

  Tuuq nodded at a woman who was standing nearby and said something in Inuktitut. The Beaujoulds had purchased tinned goods and kerosene from the woman when they first arrived in Suk-Luk. It was she who had brought over the blankets the boys were now bundled in. She was tall for an Inuit woman. Her cheeks were sunken in and her face more lined than Claude remembered. Very few here had not been touched by hunger and sickness in recent weeks.

  “Not cold,” Marie added, making eye contact with the woman. “Warm it. Please.” There was no need for Tuuq to translate. The Inuit here had learned much of French from missionaries in the region, but for Claude and Marie the acquisition of Inuktitut was proving to be a slow process.

  The older boy had the hollow-eyed look of one who had just returned from the land of the dead. He was raving.

  “Don’t…. dogs… eat them! Don't let… dogs eat… sister!”

  Both boys were skinny as sticks. They couldn’t have been more than 6 and 4 years old. Skin prickled at the back of Claude’s neck as thoughts of where the boys had come from and what had traumatized them raced through his mind. He could not fathom how they got here and how they were still standing.

  Though the air inside Ammon’s parlor was stiff with cold, sweat glistened on the top of the priest’s bald head and he had to push his glasses up his nose more than once.

  Finally, he removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and said, “They have come from Wolf Point. They are brothers.” He sighed heavily through his nose. “If what he is saying is accurate, the people there are… all lost.”

  ***

  March 4, 1991

  Suzette wrinkled her nose and said, “Yes, I know about the dogs. Terrible business.” The Northern Medicine people had told her that 47 people died at Wolf Point, but only 27 bodies were found. Sled dogs, wild with hunger, had eaten the others before they could be buried. It had taken the survivors from the neighboring community of Suk-Luk four days and a huge supply of petrol to dig a mass grave in the permafrost.

  Strauss nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “Must have been horrific. I think that’s why the missionaries buried Anaaya so soon after discovering her body. They dug a shallow grave next to the house in which she was found. About three feet was as deep as they could go before hitting the permafrost.” Strauss paused. “I’m sorry. I know this is probably a sensitive subject for you.”

  Pulling her best poker face, Suzette said, “I’m fine. Please go on.”

  “We,” said Strauss, refilling Suzette’s cup with water from the pitcher, “are also interested in Anaaya because of her age. One of the mysteries about this flu was its pattern of fatality. Usually, a flu virus will strike down the very young, the elderly, or people with compromised immune systems. But this flu killed mostly young adults. Ninety-nine percent of those who died were under the age of 65 and nearly half were between 20 and 40 years old. We need to understand why. How did this particular strain kill and why was it so lethal in young, otherwise healthy adults? If we get a well preserved tissue sample, we may be able to recreate the virus and study it.”

  Suzette clasped her hands together and wedged them under her chin. Closing her eyes, she took a few breaths. Then she opened her eyes and said, “Dr. Strauss, I am wondering if it would be possible”—she paused, wary of her own vulnerability.

  “Yes?”

  “Possible to determine if we are related. Anaaya and I.” She could see in his expression that he was not expecting the question, but he seemed pleased by it. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled.

  He also smiled and said, “I… yes. If I can get a good sample with viable DNA, it would be fairly simple. I’m sure one of my colleagues at the university could do it if you’re really that interested.”

  Inclining his head to one side, Strauss asked, “Does this mean I have your permission to exhume Anaaya’s remains?”

  “Yes, of course,” Suzette said. “Do what needs to be done. You have my blessing.”

  Strauss seemed to be fighting with himself to not behave like someone who had just won the lottery, but it was no use. His eyes sparkled with new light and his cheeks blushed like ripe apples. He was surprisingly handsome with his emotions all out in the open.

  “Thank-you so much, Dr. Beaujould. I can’t tell you enough how much this means to me—to my team. And I promise you, we will do our very best to treat Anaaya’s remains and the burial site with the utmost respect. We will take only what we need. Nothing more. And we will see to it that Anaaya’s remains are laid to rest again in a proper fashion. You have my absolute word on that. And, of course, if you have any additional requirements, we will be happy to adhere to them.”

  There was that word again: requirements. Suzette thought for a moment before speaking. She had never imagined anyone needing her permission for anything regarding Wolf Point or what lay buried beneath it. She had always regarded herself as an anomaly—plucked out and cut off —but never as a remnant, bearing a legacy or a responsibility.

  Her heart was swollen with emotion. Strauss could have easily exhumed Anaaya’s body without coming all this way to seek her approval. She would never have known and it wouldn’t have mattered. She found few qualities more pleasing in a person than integrity and respect. Tears stung her eyes and she looked up at the ceiling to keep them from falling.

  “Do you need my approval in writing? Shall I sign something?”

  “Do you mind?” His eyes widened and he clasped his hands in front of his chest. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He started to fumble with his portfolio case, presumably to find a blank sheet of paper.

  “No, of course I don’t mind. I’ve got something here…” She reached into her duffle bag and pulled out a spiral-bou
nd notebook with a print of the Cherubim Putti Angels on the cover. It was the notebook she used to jot down story ideas for The Catholic Voice. Suzette was in her final months as editor-in-chief of the premier journal for Catholic educators. She was long retired from her work as an educator, which was for the best since she could no longer enter a Catholic Board building without feeling like an imposter.

  A photograph slipped out from between the pages of her notebook. It was a colour photo of Claude, Marie and Suzette in front of the CN Tower in 1976 when it first opened in Toronto. The photo had not captured one of Suzette’s more cherished memories. By the time they took the Toronto trip, Marie was wheelchair-bound and macular degeneration had nearly blinded Claude in one eye. But it was their last trip together as a family and this was the only photo she had left.

  Claude died shortly after, in the winter of 1978. He was ninety. Marie followed in the spring of 1979, at 88. The family’s photo albums had disappeared from Marie’s room at the nursing home in Gatineau, along with Marie’s watch, a locket containing a rare photograph of Marie’s mother, and several articles of Marie’s clothing. Of course, none of the staff could account for a single item.

  “You know your mother had Alzheimer’s. We often found her in other residents’ rooms, wearing layers of clothes that didn’t even belong to her. Who knows what she did with those things?”

  Who indeed? Suzette’s finger caressed Marie’s likeness in the photograph and her thoughts drifted to the nurses’ frequent complaints.

  “Your mother needs to be watched constantly… your mother said the rudest thing yesterday… your mother is biting now…” Mother. She turned the word over in her mind as one holds a wine glass up to the light to check for spots. Mother. She remembered like it was yesterday the one time she had called Marie that.

  It was 1924 and Marie was in the kitchen, her happy fingers dancing through bread dough to the beat of George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. The song was playing on the Radiola Grande, a birthday gift to Marie from Claude. Suzette had held the note from her kindergarten teacher up to Marie and said, “Here, mother.”