He rapidly gathered the materials necessary for a decent fire. Maggie, feeling she had no worries in the world anymore, watched him. In no time he had built a moderate-sized fire, just as the sun finally dipped behind the distant trees.
“There, isn’t that lovely?” he said, sitting down beside her.
She snuggled up to him. “I’m surprised the mosquitoes aren’t out already, eating and biting us. Hate those little things. Make me scratch.”
John tossed some more wood on the fire. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I had a talk with them earlier and we made a deal. If they don’t bother us tonight, I’ll leave Sammy’s window open later. He’s a very sound sleeper. They’ll have a feast.”
Giggling, Maggie threw a twig at him. “That’s mean. You’re evil.”
“So I’ve been told. But a deal’s a deal.”
The fire gradually grew brighter and hotter. They watched the flames dance and glow.
“Mr. Richardson?”
“Yes, Chief Second?”
Maggie pursed her lips, trying to come up with the right way to phrase her question. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“Here at Otter Lake, or here on the beach with you?”
“Either or.”
She saw him looking at her, plumbing her eyes like a spelunker examining an unexplored cave. For a moment, she was expecting him to say something deep and intimate.
“I do believe you are drunk, Ms. Second. After just three glasses of wine.” Not as romantic a line as she had expected but it did show he was paying attention.
“I bet you’ve had a lot of girlfriends. Haven’t you?” She wasn’t sure where exactly that question came from but it had been hiding somewhere.
“My share” was all he’d say.
“Okay. I’ve had three boyfriends in my life. Tonto Stone— don’t ask about his name, it’s a long story. William Williams, and my husband, Clifford. That’s all. But you, with your leather, your motorcycle, and green eyes…”
“Hazel.”
“… hazel eyes. How many? Dozens?”
“Like I said, I’ve had my share.” He poked the fire a few times with a stick he’d found, and the flames sprang higher.
“Your share. Okay, and what has having your share taught you?”
“That some women shouldn’t drink.”
“No, seriously. I’m curious. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a mother with a son. I dated a bit before I got married but I get the feeling that I missed out on the good dating stories. I figure a guy like you probably knows the score. So, come on, dish. I’m in a dishing mood. Tell me.” She ended her demand with a good strong poke at his shoulder.
“Okay, what exactly would you like to know?”
Her brow furrowed. “Okay, what have all your travels taught you… about women? That’s a good one. Answer that!”
“That there’s no one answer. Some are good. Some are bad. And some…”
“Yes?”
“And some are good at being bad, and bad at being good. To guys like me, women are like a rainbow, you pick the colour that best suits you and wear it proudly.”
Maggie looked confused. “What… what does that mean?”
“I’ll tell you later, when you’re sober. Why do you want to know anyway?”
Maggie threw a branch at the fire, missing it completely. “Because I want to figure women out, that’s why. I’m a woman and I don’t know anything about what they do or why.”
“Are you talking about your mother?”
“Let me tell you about my mother…”
“Why don’t you tell me about your mother.”
“My mother… I loved her so much.” Her voice trembled.
“But she could be the most infuriating, stubborn, pain-in-the-ass ever born.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She was a walking contradiction. Like… like… I have a brother… actually I have a lot of brothers, but Wayne, she spoiled him rotten. So rotten he’s nuts, yet she wasn’t upset when he didn’t come see her when she was sick. I was mad as hell but she wasn’t. Other times she’d burn sweetgrass before going to church. Stuff like that.” She took another sip of her wine. “I don’t know if you know this but Mom went to one of those residential schools, saw horrible things that happened there I’m sure… Maybe that had something to do with it. Look at Sammy… you know… we’ve all tried to help Sammy. Some of our health workers have gone up to see him, my husband even arranged for a psychiatrist to visit him, but nothing. He’ll only talk in Anishnawbe, and not many psychiatrists are that fluent in it. Sammy doesn’t want to be helped. He lives in his own little universe… and yet he let you in. I wonder why?”
“If you want to know a secret…” he said, and Maggie leaned in closer, “I’m a little crazy too. We speak a very similar language, without the iambic pentameter. If your brother’s nuts as well, maybe we could start a club.”
Maggie let out a short laugh. “That would be funny. My mother would love that. Sweetgrass and holy water. That was my mother. You know, she was as devout as any old Italian lady. She told me I shouldn’t be chief. She thinks there should be more magic in this world. She…”
“Yes?”
She fell silent, looking deep into the fire. “I don’t understand her.”
“And you think I can help you?”
Maggie shook her head. “No. Probably not.” She paused. “I don’t like my job either.”
“Then why are you in your second term as chief if you hate it?”
“I’m the lesser of two evils.”
“I don’t think you’re evil.”
“Thanks.” Once more she looked at the handsome young man beside her. “And you never answered my question.”
“And what question would that be again?
“What have you, John Richardson-Tanner, learned about women? Tell me.”
“Fun, huh? Okay, I will give you a fun answer. Where to start? Let’s talk about breasts.”
“Breasts… like boobs?”
“Yep, that’s as good a place as any to begin.”
Maggie nodded vigorously. “Okay, let’s.” Then she realized what he’d just said, and what she’d agreed to. “Huh?”
“After considerable field research, did you know breasts, boobs, hooters, knockers, whatever you wish to call them, are unique, individual, like fingerprints?”
“For your information,” Maggie told John in her firmest voice, “in Anishnawbe, we call them…”
“Doodooshug. I know. But seriously, I don’t think I’ve seen two that were the same, even on the same woman. Other than the obvious difference in sizes and cups, there are the subtler, more unique distinctions. The shape of the nipple, the size of it, the curvature, the colour, the smell, the firmness, the size and colour of the areola, the texture, even the temperature. They’re like… snowflakes. Each one is special, a world unto itself, deserving of its own worship. They are each a thing of life, of pleasure, of dreams, be they used for practical or aesthetic purposes. Call me a fan but I have a memory of every single one I’ve touched, that I’ve tasted, and those memories will stay with me until the day I no longer travel this country. That is one of the most important things that I’ve learned from all those women I’ve been lucky enough to know.”
Maggie wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’ve never heard a man talk so passionately about breasts like that. That’s… quite unusual.”
“I thought, in respect to the Anishnawbe language, they were called doodooshims, if you are talking plural, because I have noticed they usually travel in pairs. So I do believe that calling them breasts proves they’ve been colonized, young lady. Any other questions?”
“I’m still trying to digest that one. I take it you like breasts.”
“Call it a hobby. Beats collecting baseball cards.”
“Now that sounds like a man!” she said, laughing.
Noticing a stone sticking out of the ground, John pulled it out. Though Maggie hadn’t heard an
ything, John had detected the sounds of raccoons somewhere nearby. Trying to be as discreet as possible, he tossed the rock into the darkness of the woods. He heard it hit something soft, and that something—he assumed it was a raccoon—scrambled away. Satisfied, he turned his attentions back to the lovely Maggie.
“I am what I am.” He paused. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your mother used to come down here and go swimming a lot. At least that’s what she told me. It used be quite different down here when she was younger. More trees, right down to the shore, more privacy, and I think the water was probably cleaner. She used to love swimming here. Even brought some boyfriends to go skinny-dipping, I believe. Bet you didn’t know that.”
Shocked at the idea, Maggie pushed John’s shoulder. “My mother! Virgil’s grandmother. I don’t think so.”
“It’s true. She was a very passionate young woman. Grandmothers aren’t born grandmothers. Wise men and women aren’t born wise—wisdom is something achieved over years of experience. And for some, that experience includes… skinny-dipping.”
The fire was doing strange things to John’s face. His eyes reflected the light differently. They seemed to change colour randomly. Suddenly, she felt his hand on the back of her neck, caressing the nape and playing with her hair.
“So, want to swim naked in the same water your mother did?”
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink into her gradually sobering mind. Was he asking what she thought he was asking her?
“Now?”
“Would you rather book it a week next Thursday, after my dentist appointment and before I have my nails done? Yes, now. The water is fairly warm. We’ll have a nice fire to come back to. Nobody’s around. It’s just us.”
John was looking at her expectantly, a slight smile on his lips. Skinny-dipping. In the footsteps of her mother. She still had enough wine in her to take the proposition seriously, but she was also sober enough to realize what was involved. He continued to play with her hair, making it difficult for her to think.
“Take your time. We’ve got all night,” he whispered into her ear.
Virgil wasn’t expected home for a few more hours. He’d been off doing his own thing today anyway. Boys could be so mysterious. But… this was only a second date—or was it their first date, since their meal together had been merely a thank-you? Maggie decided not to go down that road again. A dozen other thoughts came and went as the motorcyclist sat there, patiently waiting, playing with the hair at the nape of her neck.
“You know, with global warming, they say this lake might not be here in a couple of decades.” His voice sounded so teasing and melodic.
Maggie made her decision. Why the fuck not? she thought. She leaned forward and kissed the man who had so mysteriously ridden into her life. And she put everything she could into it. Three years’ worth of stored-up kissing and passion were waiting to be accessed and she wanted to drain the reservoir.
And for somebody out of practice, the man decided later, she didn’t do half bad.
On the other side of Beer Bay the young Dakota sat on the dock, her eyes glued to her binoculars. There were so many conflicting emotions swirling around inside her—some embarrassment, a touch of excitement, guilt at watching other people and perhaps, just perhaps, a tinge of jealously. That was Virgil’s mother, their chief, kissing and doing stuff by the fire with John Clayton.
Biting her lower lip, Dakota watched some more, knowing she probably shouldn’t. Though she tried not to think about it, she couldn’t help wondering if this was the kind of stuff her parents did… and she felt a bit nauseated.
Dakota wondered where Virgil was, and if he knew John and his mother were down by the dock, together.
SEVENTEEN
Virgil and Wayne had made it back to shore just before sunset. First they returned the canoe, which they had towed behind the motorboat, to Tim, who greeted his younger brother with little more than a grunt and a nod. Worried about his mother, Virgil was eager to get started, but Wayne had a different agenda. There was something else to be dealt with first. The cemetery.
Now Wayne stood beside the final resting place of his mother, with Virgil just behind him, staring at her headstone. Underneath her name and her dates, carved into the marble, were the words LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER. Below were three more words: TRUST IN HIM. Under his breath, Wayne whispered an ancient Anishnawbe farewell. And then he was silent.
Virgil hadn’t been back here since the funeral, and with everything that had happened, he hadn’t really come to grips with the loss of his grandmother.
“I wished I’d gone in and seen you,” he said, lost in his own little world. “I’m sorry.”
The sun had long since disappeared by the time they left. Wayne walked along the path between the tombstones to the street, Virgil following.
“Are you okay?” asked Virgil.
“It’s the circle of life, that’s all. You shouldn’t be happy or sad.
It simply is what it is. You can cry all you want, it ain’t gonna change anything.”
“That’s a bit… cold,” said Virgil.
“You’re right. It is. I think maybe I’ve been on my island a little too long. Sometimes the nuances of communicating get lost when you don’t talk a lot. It’s kind of like the difference between playing by yourself and playing with yourself. Virgil, I loved my mother more than anybody else could possibly know. But she died. She had to die. We all do. And while it is sad that I will never see her again, I know that she was contributing to what we call the circle of life. She passed on so that somewhere out there, a baby could be born in her place. You know how much she loved her grandkids, all kids. This was not a great sacrifice for her.”
Virgil wasn’t sure he understood, but he nodded.
“So, where to now?” said Wayne.
They made their way to Virgil’s house, but Maggie was not home. “She must be off with him,” said the boy, noting it was half past ten, much too late for mothers to still be out, in his opinion. They found a note from her saying she’d be home before his bedtime. “I told you,” said Virgil, dropping the note on the table. He scribbled something on the back of it.
“What’s that?” asked Wayne, searching the pantry. It was well past dinner and he was hungry.
“Just a note to Mom,” the boy replied.
While Virgil wrote, Wayne made a sandwich. Thank god Maggie still ate baloney, he thought to himself as he laid three slices on the whole-wheat bread. “Please have mustard. Please have mustard,” he whispered to the condiment gods, and lo, they blessed and bestowed upon him Dijon.
The next stop, Virgil told his uncle, who was deep into his baloney sandwich, was Sammy Aandeg’s place.
“The stranger lives there?” said Wayne.
“That’s what he said.”
The cool night air greeted them as they set forth on their adventure.
“Maybe this guy is strange,” said Wayne. “Even when I was your age, we all knew Sammy was a crazy drunk. Nobody in their right mind would want to stay there. But I still think this whole thing is a waste of time. I think you’re just having mother–son insecurities of some kind. But regardless of what I believe, you asked me for help. An uncle doesn’t turn his back on his nephew, or his sister. That’s family. That’s obligation.” Wayne picked up a small rock in his right hand and whipped it at a large cedar tree. It hit the right side, chipping off some bark, then bounced off a nearby poplar, and returned to land directly between his feet. Smiling at his own ability, Wayne disappeared ahead into the darkness of the country road, finishing the last of his sandwich. Virgil, amazed, examined the scratched cedar before running off after him.
“Wow.”
“Training,” came Wayne’s voice from the darkness.
“Uncle Wayne? This circle-of-life thing you mentioned, is that why you didn’t come to the funeral? The family was kind of pissed off.”
“I’m sure they were. Virgil, be happy you’re an only chil
d. Some European guy once said, ‘What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.’ You can bet the world he had brothers and sisters. My relationship with my mother was different from theirs. And folks do not often like people who are different, especially people they love very much. Especially when it involves something they can’t change. How I mourn our mother was and is my business. And that’s why I came over here, to explain to you why I didn’t go to my mother’s funeral?” he asked.
“No. I was just curious.”
“Curiosity is a two-edge axe. I had a very curious dog when I was your age. I spent most of my time pulling porcupine quills out of its face, and washing away skunk smells. Curiosity is highly overrated.”
When they reached the Aandeg driveway, they saw Maggie’s car parked off to the side, barely visible in the darkness. Virgil had mixed emotions about catching his mother in the act.
They knocked on the front door of the house several times before Sammy Aandeg came waddling out, smelling of beer.
“Excuse me, but is…?”
Virgil had barely begun to speak when Sammy angrily let loose with an Anishnawbe tirade and beer-scented spit, making the boy take a step backward.
“Let me handle this,” said Wayne, who moved forward and promptly began his own tirade in the language.
For a moment, Sammy was surprised, but having a comprehending audience seemed to make him relish the opportunity to speak his language with full gusto.
Virgil watched them yell back and forth at each other, catching only the odd word here and there. Suddenly, Sammy slammed the door. They could hear locks on the other side being clicked into place.
“Well, that was interesting,” said Wayne.
“What did he say?”
“I’m not sure yet. First of all, there was something about it being wintertime and some people were discontented. I kind of lost track after a while. He sure talks in a funny way. But after some prodding, I found out that your mother isn’t here. She went off with some guy named Caliban.”
“Caliban? Who’s Caliban? His name is John Tanner. Sammy is nuts.”
Motorcycles & Sweetgrass Page 16