Motorcycles & Sweetgrass

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  John nodded. “That explains a lot.”

  Thirty seconds later, he tore out of the driveway on his Indian Chief. But the story he left behind would be told for years.

  It was lunchtime and Maggie was just leaving the Band Office, trying to decide whether to raid her own kitchen cupboards to feed herself and her son or to save herself the trouble and head over to Betty Lou’s Take-Out. The phone call from Ms. Weatherford had added another straw to the camel’s back. And she did not relish the thought of another blowout with her brother, if he was still lurking about her place. How had life gotten so difficult all of a sudden?

  “Hey,” said a familiar voice.

  Parked right beside her car was a familiar motorcycle and an even more familiar man, smiling broadly. This was the morning after and Maggie smiled back, radiating a combination of delight, embarrassment, awkwardness and a certain amount of anticipation. God, he had a nice smile, she couldn’t help thinking.

  “Holy shit, you look good.” There was a definite lack of romanticism about his compliment, but Maggie decided to accept it nonetheless.

  “So do you. Bonfires and late-night swims seem to agree with you.”

  Instinctively he could tell there were people in the windows of the Band Office watching her. Once more her cheeks flushed. Lately they’d been flushing far too frequently for an approaching-middle-age chief, but she seemed unable to do anything about it.

  “What are you doing here?” That seemed like a safe question.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  Even through two panes of glass, Maggie could hear the girls, and Arthur the accountant, in the office laughing and cooing.

  “Wanted to know if I could buy you lunch. I know a great restaurant in town. A Thai restaurant. You know, I have had Thai only twice in my life! Can you believe it? All in the last couple of weeks. Great stuff. I know Otter Lake has more sweetgrass than lemongrass, but you gotta try it. Have you ever?”

  “Yeah, though not in a while. But right now, John? It’ll take a good hour and a half to get into town, have lunch, then the drive back. I have an important phone conference at one-fifteen. Maybe dinner instead?”

  The man sitting on the motorcycle shook his head. “I want you to see something. And I’m hungry for Thai now. Come on, Maggie, blow it off. We’ll have a lot more fun. I promise. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “I can’t blow it off, John. I love Thai but this is rather important. It’s with the local MP about the land acquisition deal and a press conference we’re holding tomorrow. You don’t just blow off an MP. And what do you want me to see?”

  John took her hand. “I don’t want to tell you, I want to show you. You see, I have a plan but I can’t tell you about it. Not yet. It’s a surprise. And sure you can blow your meeting off. I blow things off all the time. If you want, I’ll even write you a note. You are always so stressed out about these things. Let me… de-stress you. I’m a great de-stressor. Been doing it for years.” He smiled in anticipation.

  “I am sure you are, but sorry, can’t do it. Priorities.” Maggie could see the disappointment in his face. It was almost childlike. “The world doesn’t wait for me, John.”

  “But you want me to wait for you…”

  “No. This lunch was your suggestion and I appreciate it. Really I do. I can still do dinner, even lunch tomorrow. Just not today. That’s not the end of the world.”

  John had trouble reconciling the simple fact that not everyone shared his willingness to drop everything to do anything anytime. Now he wrestled over what to do. He was a man of conflicting passions. Like a good hunter, he had the focus to lie in wait for as long as it took to catch whatever he was hunting. But if he wanted to eat then and there and nobody could present him with a logical reason why he shouldn’t—then screw them and damn the consequences. The woman standing in front of him would rather spend the day in an office, talking with politicians about some theoretical land issue, instead of riding the highways with him, dodging bugs and responsibilities. That would take him a while to figure out.

  “Okay,” he said. “I respect that. Another time, then. I just thought it would be nice to spend some more time together. I guess you could say I’ve sort of become hooked. And it’s such a beautiful day, Maggie. I’m sorry. However, I still have a hankering for some tom yum goong. With lots of shrimp. Another new favourite discovery of mine. Have fun at your meeting.” Clearly unhappy, he pivoted his bike around, almost hitting Maggie’s knee.

  “John…”

  It was too late, for John had put his helmet on and had throttled open his Indian. The only response Maggie got was gasoline exhaust farted in her direction as the bike pulled out of the parking lot.

  A pretty immature response, thought Maggie. She too was conflicted. She was puzzled at his oddly emotional response, but also regretful that she’d disappointed him. Though, she couldn’t help thinking that if he acted like this all the time, maybe it was a good thing she was learning it now. She was already raising one moody child; she didn’t need another. Maybe Wayne was right, she thought to herself jokingly. John was indeed acting like a petulant, self-obsessed man-child, like Nanabush in many of the legends she’d heard growing up.

  Still faced with the dilemma of lunch, Maggie decided to go home and open up a big can of soup for Virgil and herself. It might not be tom yum goong, in fact she remembered only having a can of chicken-noodle in the cupboard, but at least she wouldn’t have to deal with all the other people hanging out at Betty Lou’s Take-Out. And screw the people in the window still watching her.

  Without looking back, Maggie jumped into her aging car and drove home.

  John Tanner, or Richardson, or Prestor, or Matus or whoever he was at the moment had a plan—or at least the beginnings of one. He had wanted to share it with Maggie, even enlist her aid in putting the plan into effect, because nothing bonds a couple like intrigue and mischief. But alas, she had other plans: plans that didn’t include him, plans in fact that openly excluded him. Briefly, the man debated pulling up stakes and saying goodbye to Lillian’s daughter and Otter Lake in general. It was a big country with lots of other adventures out there. But one thing his years of existence had taught him was patience. When necessary, he had patience born of the very land. And he had promises to keep.

  And now, at least, he had a direction. A road map of sorts to follow—one that would give the lovely Maggie what she wanted, and cement his place in her heart… for however long he felt it necessary. He would just have to do it alone. He’d done so much alone in his life; this would be no different. So as quickly as the disappointment had encased him, it fell away as he roared down the highway, his Indian Chief at full throttle, announcing to other denizens of the road that he had a purpose and they should get out of his way. He hadn’t smiled with this much purpose in a long time. He would show them, especially Maggie, how smart and useful he could be, whether they wanted to know or not. Times may have changed but he hadn’t. The fight in the restaurant this morning had proved it. No matter where you are, or when, jerks like Dan always popped up to disprove Darwin’s theory. There was an overabundance of them in the general population, more than willing to annoy you. They came in all cultures and races.

  Luckily, the Creator had also seen fit to populate the world with the likes of that pretty young girl Dakota. Such girls helped prove that whoever does watch over existence in whatever form, under whatever name, knows about the concept of yin and yang, complementary opposites. You must have the sweet with the sour. The other night, he had seen the glint of the moon coming off her binoculars, and knew somebody was watching. For how long, he wasn’t sure, and what they saw he didn’t quite know. He was just lucky it was only her. She fairly gushed when John woke her, and he immediately thought he should keep her as a friend. You can never have too many friends when you’re on a plan, and she might come in handy someday. Besides, the man knew she was a friend of Virgil’s, and maintaining a relationship with her just might a
nnoy the boy. Again, a win-win situation.

  The wheels beneath him ate up kilometre after kilometre. He had a lot to do, and he wanted to do it as quickly as possible. He had both a plan and a purpose, which made him doubly dangerous. The plan had many levels; his main purpose, solving the lovely Maggie’s dilemma regarding the land. Step one was a visit to the museum. Plan and purpose are good but so is flexibility, he believed. He had suffered a minor defeat today, with Maggie and lunch, and he was eager to avoid all such possible defeats happening in the future. So, he needed a moral boost. Last night had shown him he was back in fine form. That was good. He could use that. There were some old scores to settle. That was even better. And he had all afternoon to do it because the museum didn’t close ’til eight. If he hurried, and if traffic and the dry-cleaning gods were with him, he could get everything accomplished.

  John pointed his motorcycle south, in the direction of the big city. He just hoped nothing would get in his way.

  Two and a half hours later, John was standing in front of a certain big-city dry cleaner in a rundown part of town. Over his left shoulder was a window to a room in which an old Indian drunk had once lived. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t look at it. That was yesterday. This was today. Today offered better options than yesterday had.

  Inside the store, more than likely, was the address of a certain Native woman he was determined to find. But first, how? It proved to be surprisingly easy. At the back of the building was a large Dumpster, conveniently half full of flammable objects. Some gasoline from his motorcycle, a match and he’d managed to start a good-sized but safely insulated blaze.

  “Hey, buddy,” said John, out of breath from racing around the block and in through the front door, to the Asian gentleman manning the counter. “I think something out back of your store is on fire.” He saw a dusty fire extinguisher nestled near the cash. Even better. “Take your fire extinguisher, see if you can put it out. I’ll call the fire department.”

  “Fire? Fire?” the man screamed, doing exactly what the Good Samaritan had suggested, leaving John alone in the front office. Quickly, John grabbed all the receipts, which listed names, phone numbers and addresses, from the ledge beneath the cash register and raced out the door. As he left, he could hear the man out back swearing in some foreign language, accompanied by the hissing of the extinguisher. A minute later, John was gone.

  In a nearby park, the man went through the pink receipts, hoping against all odds he would find something. Admittedly, he didn’t know the woman’s name, and today many Native families across the country had adopted English names, and also French, Scottish, Irish and a host of others from across the world. The chances of her being one of the minority who still had a readily identifiable Aboriginal name were slim, if not non-existent. But most of his life had been built on slim chances. Why should this be any different?

  Angela Metawabin… sounds Cree, he thought, examining the pink sheet and the list of clothes she’d dropped off. Definitely she’d been dressed like a professional woman. Could be the same person. With any luck, it was. John decided to find out. Looking up the address, he threw all the others to the wind, then put this one with Angela’s name in his pocket. He was his old self again. This almost felt like he was tracking deer or moose.

  Fourteen city blocks later, he found her. Parking his vehicle, he surveyed the territory. It was a house, a very nice two-storey house. The large dreamcatcher in the window, and the one hanging from the rear-view mirror of the car in the driveway gave Angela Metawabin away. Inside, he discovered by peeking, the car was a mess. She may dress sophisticated, but her Kia Spectra indicated she was a very messy young lady. The area behind the passenger seat was filled with empty coffee cups and plastic water bottles, where the driver had tossed them. The front passenger seat had about a half-a-foot-high pile of papers and files that showed signs of having slid back and forth. This indicated nobody usually sat there. So she was probably single. Signs kept looking better and better.

  Time was ticking by. It was now or never. He pressed the doorbell and heard the muffled chimes announce his presence. The door opened and the very attractive Ms. Metawabin stood before him. It was indeed the same woman. He smiled.

  “Yes?” she said.

  She worked from home. John could see a small office in the corner of the living room.

  John cleared his throat. “Hi, my name’s John Savage. You don’t know me but…”

  Two hours later he was back on the road, heading north. Mission accomplished. Using every fibre of charm and eloquence all his years of experience had given him, he had swept the young Cree woman off her feet. Literally. He had amazed even himself. Of course the blond hair and hazel eyes had helped. Native people were suckers for that. There was a tiny corner of his conscience that felt bad for sneaking out while she was in the washroom, but why hang around for long goodbyes? So, after quickly making himself a sandwich—unfortunately Angela seemed to be a vegetarian but there was nothing he could do about that—John quietly closed the door behind him and left.

  He’d enacted his revenge, and had had his morale boost. Now he had things to do. It would get dark soon and he was already running behind schedule.

  Back to the plan.

  TWENTY

  Wayne was in a funk, a deep one in fact. So was Virgil. They were sitting side by side, in two lawn chairs, in the Second backyard, shaded by a large flowered patio umbrella. Between them was a small garden table on which sat two half-empty glasses of iced tea. Deep funks don’t have to be uncomfortable ones.

  It had been a long hard day for both. On top of the conversation with Dakota being so unsettling, a twenty-minute meeting with Ms. Weatherford had resulted in the threat of Virgil having to repeat a year of school. If he hated going to class in the grade he was in, it would be a dozen times worse if he had to be in the same grade two years in a row, surrounded by all those sucky thirteen-year-olds. And all his friends would be bussed off the Reserve to begin their first year of high school. Virgil had truly painted himself into a corner.

  How does one get oneself out of a huge corner? One takes a huge friggin’ leap.

  “Ms. Weatherford, is there anything I can do so I won’t fail this year?”

  “Like what?” The glasses on her nose had slid down to near the tip.

  “I don’t know. What are my options? My mother, the chief, she always tells me there are options.” In reality, she never had but Virgil felt in times like this it never hurt to casually mention the fact his mother was indeed the chief.

  “Yes, I already talked to your mother, the chief. She knows the situation. I’m sure Chief Second will want to have a chat with you herself when you both get home.”

  So much for that. “Ms. Weatherford, I really don’t want to fail. It might scar me for life. Both you and I don’t want that. There’s gotta be a way we can meet somewhere in the middle. So I missed a few classes. People in jail get diplomas and degrees all the time, having done a lot worse things.”

  Virgil’s teacher looked thoughtful as she assessed the young man’s argument. He was indeed a bright boy, he just needed to focus his energy. Maybe she’d give him something to focus on. That had often worked in the past.

  “Very well. I have a proposition for you, Mr. Second.”

  The way she smiled was not exactly reassuring to him.

  Wayne’s day was not all strawberries and cream either. First thing was to deal with the blisters on his feet from all the walking he and his nephew had done the night before. Second, he wanted to keep tabs on John, so he made the pilgrimage to Sammy’s house. You can never have too much information about an adversary, especially one as unusual as this one. Since it was daylight, he took a small shortcut, trimming about ten minutes off the trip. Once there, however, he was annoyed to see that the motorcycle was gone and all was quiet.

  On his way home along the shortcut, he bumped into Sammy, wandering the trees. It was difficult to say who was more surprised at their sudden woody me
eting but it was Sammy who shook his head, dismissively. As he passed Wayne, he could hear the old man mumbling to himself in his peculiarly accented Anishnawbe, something about what fools mortals are. Then, without turning around he yelled to the young man to get out of the woods or he’d be chased by a bear. Wayne thanked him respectfully, as was the Anishnawbe custom toward Elders, then continued along the path. The thought of how close his mother had come to ending up like Sammy always sent a shiver down Wayne’s spine.

  Halfway home, Wayne bumped into an old classmate near a construction site, a big guy named Dan. They’d been best buds all through grades nine and ten, before their differing tastes led them in different directions. It had been a few years since they’d last had a conversation.

  “Hey, Dan, I heard you were in jail?”

  “Nah, not for a while. I thought you were living across the lake on Western Island.”

  “Yeah, still am. Just running some errands. Hey, what happened to your cheek?”

  “Some jerk sucker-punched me, right into my eggs.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Well, take care.”

  “Thanks, you too.”

  And Wayne continued walking, all the time wondering about destiny. Dan, who had once had an unnatural ability to mimic the accents of people on every Reserve in a six-hour radius, and could unerringly imitate all the characters on Star Trek: The Next Generation, now had arms covered with tattoos and worked on a construction site. He himself was no better, concluded Wayne. I live by myself on an island, working on something nobody cares about, chasing after a mythical man, on the outs with my family, when all I really wanted was to sing with AC/DC. Ah, he thought wistfully, the dreams of adolescents, and the realities of adults.

  It was just after lunch when Wayne approached the Band Office. He dreaded what he was about to do, but it needed to be done. And he needed to do it. Marching past the receptionist, he knocked on Maggie’s door and opened it.