From the Ashes

by Jesse Thistle

  I imagined Dad’s grand entrance occurring at the perfect time—just as we were unwrapping our treasured gifts. He’d pause in the front alcove, scrape his boots on the doormat, brush gigantic, Hollywood-style snowflakes off his broad shoulders, then look me right in the eye and smile—all without saying a word. I’d throw aside my gifts and rush into his open arms, the presents rendered worthless compared to the prospect of grabbing hold of our long-lost dad.

  Or I’d yell, “I’m mad at you!” stopping short in front of him. “You left us with nothing and all alone up in Sudbury!”

  I’d kick his foot and try to stay mad, but he’d say, “I’ll never leave again, Jesse,” his cheeks still cold from the frost. “You have my word on it,” talking his way out of it, like usual, giving me all the sweet answers I longed to hear.

  I’d collapse into his arms and bury my face in his scarf, smell his cologne, and hold on for an eternity.

  That was my Christmas wish, what I’d dreamt of that morning and what I was dreaming of again.

  “Wake up, boy,” Grandpa said. “You see this mountain of wrapping paper that needs tending?” Only his request for help taking out the trash managed to break me from my imaginings.

  I knew Grandma dreamed the same dream that I did. I saw her look at the door even after everyone had arrived. I knew that every year, fuelled by hope, she over-prepared. We watched in awe as she marshalled forth a parade of food—the same way she’d done every year since 1981.

  One of my cousins commented first, saying, “This is way too much food, Nana! How are we supposed to eat all this!?”

  Grandma didn’t answer, but kept the gravy boats and platters floating in. Plates, forks, food, and my relatives mashed together, caught up in the force of it all.

  I understood what the flood of food really represented, but didn’t have the courage to name it and stop its annual inundation. I sat at the dinner table watching my grandmother out of the corner of my eye. Between laughter and smiles she discreetly and periodically scanned the front door, poised to spring up at the turn of the knob.

  I watched my grandfather, too, after dinner, as I played on the floor in front of the tree with my cousins. As usual, he sat glued to his armchair swilling beer, until his speech slurred. I saw him staring at the police awards Uncle Ralph had won and that he kept displayed on the living room wall beside the fireplace.

  “See, Ralph,” he said, pointing at them, the smell of beer now strong in the room. “That’s my boy. That’s a real Thistle. And you,” he fired over at me. “You’re an asshole, just like your father. Oh, I know what you’ve been up to,” he said, flicking the snout of his beer with his thumb and making it pop. “I’m watching you, buddy.”

  I tried to understand what I’d done wrong, but couldn’t. I stared up at the wall. It didn’t have any pictures of Dad. None. In fact, there weren’t any pictures of me or my brothers or my dad anywhere in the whole house.

  Grandpa kept glaring at me, and I ran to the washroom looking for a place to hide. He didn’t stop as I ran past, but cracked a smile. I slammed the door.

  At the end of the day, Grandma collected the extra food and drink she’d laid out, embalmed it in cellophane, and then interred it in the fridge and freezer. I loomed over the unopened presents that lingered under our tree. They were addressed to “Sonny Boy.” They stayed under the tree, and the tree remained up for a long time, reminders that something horrible had happened and that Dad wasn’t ever going to come home.

  We ate the leftovers well into February.

  THE FAKE ITALIAN

  LEEROY KICKED HIS LEG OVER the blue bin behind the convenience store and disappeared inside. We dove in every other week, and we’d find Playboy magazines, old gum, and maybe some candy bars. It was a good little after-school activity that kept us busy.

  People thought Leeroy and I were brothers we were together so much, except that I looked like some awkward mix of Italian and something else, and he looked whiter than a bleached bedsheet. Derick, the small Greek kid who lived across the street from my grandparents, was with us and was the darkest kid around—darker than Josh even. I thought I looked like Derick and his father a bit.

  “Score,” Leeroy called out. He held a porno mag over the edge of the bin and Derick and I cheered.

  “Anything else?” Derick asked.

  I heard what sounded like boxes shuffle and bags rip followed by Leeroy saying, “We’ve hit the motherlode!” He tossed out a dusty box of Snickers and climbed out.

  “Check the expiry date,” I said as I searched the side and found a label: March 1984.

  “Must be from the backroom or something,” Derick said as he examined the label and ripped open the box. He had a bar unwrapped and in his mouth in a matter of seconds. As he tried to gnaw at the brown steel, the skin of the bar cracked and broke.

  “That shit’s three years old,” I said. “Don’t break a tooth.”

  Leeroy stood transfixed near the edge of the bin—he was gawking at the skin mag. He flipped it around and showed us a picture of a naked woman laying down in a desert. She had on feathers and leather buckskins—bits of her costume hung loose and revealed her breasts.

  “Your people,” he said to me, laughing. I didn’t know what to say and picked up a Snickers bar and attempted to snap it in half to see if it was edible. It didn’t flex a millimetre. I wasn’t putting it in my mouth.

  Derick giggled and moved closer to get a better look. He said, “My brother told me about Indians.” His mouth was full of chocolate as he looked over at me and tossed his wrapper on the ground. “Said they’re all dead.”

  Leeroy held the magazine up and smiled. “She’s not dead.” The woman in the pictures was now completely naked but was beside a painted horse and had a spear in her hand.

  “It’s in that Iron Maiden song,” Derick said. “ ‘Run to the Hills.’ My brother plays it all the time.”

  “Yeah,” Leeroy added. “My sister, too—I love that song!”

  Both broke out into the lyrics, Derick holding his hands in heavy metal devil horns, Leeroy headbanging his mullet. I could make out that the song was about killing Indians and selling them whiskey and destroying the buffalo. The only clear part was the chorus—same as the title. I assumed it meant that the Indians had to run away.

  I thought about when Derick’s brother, Moses, played that song on the ghetto blaster in front of their house. I heard the name “Cree” in the lyrics and Moses explained to me that it was about when the British Army killed a bunch of Cree Indians on the plains out west and then gave the land to white people.

  “You’re from out west,” Moses said. “Are you a Cree?” I didn’t know what to say and wondered if my mom was a Cree for a second.

  “No,” I blurted out. “We’re Italian.” The lie came from nowhere, but I thought it might keep me safe or include me somehow. “We have some Indian way back,” I went on. “But my skin is dark because we have Italian in us—see.” I held my arm to his.

  “That’s not what Josh said.” He gave me a skeptical look.

  I thought about my parents and all the questions that burned within me growing up, and the resentment that had taken root. I hated them; I hated myself. I hated explaining to other kids where my parents were and why my skin was darker than theirs. I felt torn between wanting to be Indian and wanting to hide in my lie—kind of how I felt standing there, listening to Derick and Leeroy thrash to that song by the dumpster with the naked woman in the magazine dressed like an Indian.

  It would just make life easier, I decided, to tell people I was Italian.

  FALLING APART

  1988–1996

  MY FABRICATED PERSONA

  “Life of the party,” they said

  Whatever they put in front of me, I did.

  Lines

  Joints

  Cups of straight whiskey

  Chased down by false manhood

  I took bits of all the Gods and mixed them together

  He
ndrix

  Jim Morrison

  Conan the Barbarian

  Chavez the Native horse thief from Young Guns

  And—voilà—an instant Warrior

  I drank more than they could

  Jumped higher

  Ran faster

  But nobody told me

  That Indians aren’t made in Hollywood

  And we were never meant to be the good guys

  ODDBALL

  I COULDN’T READ FOR SHIT and stuttered, so I avoided reading out loud in front of everyone. I didn’t understand how I’d graduated Grade 5 without really knowing how to read and write, but there I was, at a new school, in amongst a whole new crop of kids.

  Leeroy was in Grade 7 and would walk to school with me every day, so I had the edge over some of the Grade Sixers who, I assumed, didn’t know anyone. On our walks we often picked up butts off the ground and pretended we were smoking. We didn’t have a lighter or matches because John at the store had stopped selling anything cigarette related to us kids after he found me supplying Mitch a few years back.

  Leeroy’s sister, Sylvia, however, smoked with her rocker friends, Mitch included. They all had big teased hair—Sylvia’s hairsprayed bangs were a three-inch wave cresting on her forehead. Her nose didn’t stick out so much anymore, and she’d started getting bumps and curves all over. Her makeup seemed to sparkle, the same dreamy way as the women in Grandma’s soap operas, and my vision got blurry whenever I saw her sucking on a cigarette, and words—forget about it. I couldn’t form a coherent thought around her.

  The first time Leeroy saw me acting like an ass around Sylvia, he said, “I’ll rearrange your face if you look at her that way again.”

  Still, I couldn’t help dreaming about her and those cigarettes.

  Josh went to the same school and was in Grade 8 with Sylvia, and Jerry was in Grade 7 and had made a whole new batch of friends separate from Josh and me and our street crew. His buddies were now the smart and good kids from neighbourhoods I didn’t know. They didn’t smoke or drink or cause any trouble that I knew of; they were awkward and read comics. But my brothers still held their ground. I felt safe with them and Leeroy around.

  That left me free to explore—girls especially.

  One day in October, while waiting to catch a bus for our school field trip to the Royal Ontario Museum, I noticed her, up on the hill in front of the arena right beside our school.

  She had flaming red hair and a pair of black-and-white British Knights running shoes. I knew her name was Lucie because I’d heard a teacher call it out at an assembly during orientation week. I’d heard classmates say that she was an excellent swimmer and took classes in the swimming club, where all the elite swimmers our age took lessons. She hung out with the cool kids—my friend Brian and some rich kids.

  I wasn’t like them, though.

  I walked around the bottom of the hill, fidgeting with my book bag. I wanted to talk to her, but my brain wasn’t working properly, just like when I was around Sylvia. I could tell Lucie didn’t even see me, sweating and rehearsing how to say hi. She was gossiping with two other pretty girls I also had weird feelings about. One of them was Kiley. She had long, flowy hair that made my guts do backflips. She had two sisters at the school who were into soccer, just like Kiley.

  “They’re a family of athlete goddesses,” Leeroy said.

  The other girl, a strawberry blond named Sarah, was “developed,” as Leeroy would say. It drove all us boys nuts. Everyone wanted to dance with her at the seasonal Much Music dances, and when the music started up, she was like a queen bee covered in a beard of adolescent males. I once tried dancing with her but was almost trampled. I spent the rest of the night bopping in the corner all by myself, far from the hormones and chaos.

  “Hi,” I managed to spit out as I got about halfway up the hill, thirty feet away from the three girls. They didn’t hear me. “Hi,” I said again, raising the volume a decibel or two. My voice cracked under the strain. I wanted to flee but I pushed on. Still no answer. I thought they were ignoring me.

  But Sarah turned and rolled her eyes. “Look, it’s that nerd that hangs out with Brian. What does he want?”

  Kiley laughed and looked me up and down.

  Lucie was silent and scrunched up her face at Sarah.

  “Hello, my name is Jesse.” I extended my hand. “Is this where the class is supposed to meet to catch the bus for the school field trip?” They giggled. My hand just hung there. Nice moves. I squirmed. Real smooth.

  “Does this look like a bus stop?” Sarah retorted, pushing my hand away. Her flowered sundress looked menacing in the breeze.

  I had nothing left to say, no more moves, no courage.

  Kiley turned her back and whispered something to Lucie and pinched her nose as if I smelled. Lucie didn’t react. I flashed her a smile. She smiled back a little. But I couldn’t bear to be there any longer and went to leave.

  “Wait,” Lucie said, as she reached for my hand and shook it. “My name is Lucie, nice to meet you.”

  Kiley and Sarah were dumbfounded.

  JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM

  “LET’S GO TO THE MALL,” I said.

  Anything was better than lunch hour at school, even walking two kilometres, and there was a place called Frank’s that served the best fries and gravy in the city. After, we could go to the convenience store and play Double Dragon or Time Lord on the arcade machines. Leeroy was pretty good, I sucked ass. Richard was with us. He was a small German kid with a big head who was just as mischievous as Leeroy and me. He’d been in my Grade 6 class the year before, and I’d done something with him I’d never done with Leeroy—I’d skipped school.

  At the mall, Leeroy pulled five dollars out of his pocket. Richard had twenty. I, on the other hand, pulled rabbit ears, like usual. When we got to the burger stand the two of them slapped their bills on the counter, ordered “Fly Baby,” and laughed.

  “Fly Baby” is how Frank called orders of fries and gravy back to his wife, who manned the fry station behind the till. We kids had heard him say that a few times and started saying it ourselves. We thought it was funny. Frank usually gave us our orders without saying a word, then, once we were far enough away, he’d turn to his wife and say something in Korean.

  Mrs. N., our home economics teacher, reacted the same way when I made fun of her Japanese accent during class, becoming silent. When I didn’t do my assignments—which happened all the time—it was my way to shut her down. The class loved it every time I deliberately mispronounced something and encouraged me with laughter.

  For as long as I could remember, people had teased me about being a half-breed “Indian,” and I hated it, but when I acted the same way toward others, nobody ever focused on who I was. Mrs. N. didn’t deserve it—no wonder she failed me with the brief report card comment “Frequently unprepared for class.”

  After Frank handed over the two orders of fries, Richard inhaled his. He didn’t share a single bite with me. I was insulted. After all, I was the one who’d asked him along and I expected him to give me at least a couple of fries in return. Leeroy, to my shock, did the exact same thing. He’d never done that before. To make matters worse, just before Leeroy finished up, Richard reached over and grabbed a fry—all dripping with gravy—and chucked it in his mouth. He grinned at me then turned to Leeroy and said, “Those were delicious, eh, buddy?” Both cackled, mouths open, fry matter visible on their tongues. I was furious. I challenged Richard to a fight after school, in the park across the street, where no teachers could interfere. He accepted. I stomped off, leaving the two of them chewing on their shitty fries.

  When the school bell rang that afternoon, I bolted to the park. Word had spread quickly that the “crazy Indian” was going to scalp some poor German bastard. A pack of kids followed us across the street and formed a giant circle around Richard and me. Chants of “Go, go, go” filled the air as kids began shoving us closer and closer together. I swung first and hit Richard in the mou
th. Stunned, he stood still for a moment, then hurled his book bag at me, missing my head by about a foot. I followed with a straight leg to the gut.

  I was winning.

  Then he said, “Figures,” coughing and holding his ribs. “You’re just a dirty Indian, like the rest of them.”

  Everyone burst into laughter, followed by loud war whoops. The rage that fuelled me drained away. Silence gripped my tongue.

  “You’ll probably die drinking like they all do.”

  The crowd shifted from my side to his, and I saw my street friends laughing and pointing at me.

  They believed it, too. They all believed it.

  THE MOST IMPORTANT THING

  IT WAS A SATURDAY. THE summer sun was shining, the lawn mowers were humming, and the bacon was frying. It was all I could smell. I heard my grandfather’s flip-flops shuffling against the worn linoleum floor in the kitchen. He was too cheap to replace it. But he was letting me sleep in, which was odd, considering he always got us up at the crack of dawn for chores, or to polish his golf clubs before he went out to the range, now that we were all of working age—thirteen, the same age he told us he’d left home and went picking potatoes in Prince Edward Island.

  I heard Jerry sobbing through the wall between our bedrooms. It wasn’t his usual, annoying crying. He sounded like a gentle whale plumbing the depths in some uncharted region of the Pacific, calling for a distant herd. I sat up in bed and listened as he went on for what seemed like a million years. I knew something must be wrong and wanted to hug him right through the drywall, but I dared not leave my room. I didn’t want to get in trouble or find out that someone had died.

  I heard Yorkie pawing at the door. I opened it. He held his head low, like he’d done something bad, and his tail wasn’t wagging.

  “What is it, boy?” I asked him. “What’s going on?” I rustled the top of his head, and the back of his tail raised to quarter mast and batted back and forth.