But for the time being, he was very much alive, even if he did spend most of his time flopped out on his favourite chesterfield. Regardless, he was another warm body in my big rambling cottage, which at the moment was feeling very empty.
Needing his company, I clambered into my truck and headed off to Jid’s aunt’s place on the outside chance that someone would be home, even though it was mid-afternoon. It was too early for Jid to be home from school, while his aunt and uncle would doubtless be at work. His two cousins could be anywhere, but since both boys had left school when they reached legal age and neither had a steady job, one of them might be home.
However, the squat clapboard bungalow, girded by a wasteland of dirt, weeds, and rusting equipment parts, appeared too quiet. All the facing windows were firmly shut and the doors closed, despite the afternoon’s summer-like temperature. Plus there was no sign of Sergei, who was usually allowed to sleep outside when someone was home.
I heard his bark from inside the house the second I slammed the truck door. I waved at him through a window as I banged on the side door, then tried the knob. It was locked, which was unusual. Most people on the reserve kept their places unlocked, unless they planned to be away for more than a few days. The front door was also locked.
I tramped through the underbrush behind the house in search of an open window and found one, the bathroom. Although the narrow window was open just a slit, there was enough space for a hand to reach under the sash and push upwards. It was beyond my reach. Besides, it didn’t feel right breaking into a house that wasn’t mine, even if it was only to retrieve my dog. Figuring Jid would be home from school within half an hour, I waited.
But thirty minutes soon became forty, and I was getting antsy. Although Sergei had long since stopped barking, I knew he wasn’t pleased with the situation either. Maybe Jid was tied up with an after-school soccer game or had gone to a friend’s house. If so, it would be dinnertime before he arrived, about the same time as his aunt and uncle, two people I would rather not have to deal with. Ever since they’d done their utmost to prevent my adoption of their nephew, a boy they’d had nothing to do with until he became heir to his grandmother’s bank account and house, they’d not exactly been at the top of my list of people to be nice to.
Although I’d done my best to keep dark thoughts of Eric at bay, I was quickly running out of distractions. I knew I couldn’t wait much longer. I needed Sergei to help calm my fears, that and a bottle of lemon vodka, which I intended to buy the minute I had Sergei in the truck with me.
Fortunately, the large lot was for the most part heavily treed, with only a vague hint of neighbouring houses though the dense foliage, so there was little danger of anyone seeing me break into the house. Besides, the bathroom window was at the back, where the bush was thick and impenetrable.
I rolled an empty oil barrel around to the back and stood it upright against the wall beneath the window. It wobbled, but I managed to stabilize it enough with some rocks so I could climb onto it without fear of toppling. At this level I could easily place my fingers under the raised sash. Thankfully there was no obstructing screen to remove. I pushed upwards. At first it refused to move, but with a forceful shove accompanied by some banging to jog the window loose, it suddenly slid completely open with a grating screech, almost causing me to fall inside. The noise ignited Sergei to a new round of barking.
As I contemplated the best way to squeeze through the narrow opening, a voice suddenly spoke behind me. I jumped and only managed to avoid falling by clinging to the windowsill. But the movement had been too abrupt for the barrel, and it toppled over, forcing me to dangle for a few seconds before my hands let go of the sill and I crashed to the ground, narrowly missing the barrel. Fortunately, feathery balsam saplings helped cushion my fall.
“Child, why you do this?” Summer Grass Woman’s creased moon face bent over me as I lay momentarily stunned. The tips of her grey, reed-thin braids tickled my nose.
I did a quick survey to ensure everything was intact then fought with the balsam to stand up.
“You okay, child?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I felt a slight twinge in my right ankle, otherwise, apart from bruises that would no doubt show up tomorrow, I was whole. My face, though, was hot with embarrassment. I’d been caught in the act.
“Why you not come to me?” Her eyes, red-rimmed with age, peered up at me. I wasn’t exactly tall myself, but beside her I felt a giant.
I relaxed when I sensed annoyance rather than rebuke behind her words.
“I got key.” She showed it to me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Jid was looking after Sergei while I was away, and I wanted to get him, but no one is home.”
“They go Montreal.”
“Oh, when did they leave?”
“This morning. Jid say he leave message on your phone. Say I have key.”
“Oh dear, I forgot to check when I got home. I’m afraid I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“I can see, child. Go get dog.” She passed me the key. “Come my house for tea. It good for you.”
I knew from the steely glint in her eye that refusing was not an option. I meekly took the key and retrieved Sergei, who greeted me as if we’d been parted for days. Even if his hindquarters were stiff with arthritis, he could still manage a mean wag of his tail.
After closing the bathroom window, I locked up the house, and the two of us followed Summer Grass Woman across the road to her log cabin.
Chapter
Twenty—Nine
Although I’d visited Summer Grass Woman a couple of times at her healing lodge on Whispers Island, this was the first time I’d come to her house. I hadn’t realized how close she lived to Jid’s aunt. But unlike their suburban bungalow and Eric’s, in fact most houses on the reserve, which were built with man-made, store-bought materials, her cabin, a holdover from the reserve’s early days, came from the land.
Round cedar logs of a size seldom found in today’s logged-out forests formed the walls. Strips of peeling bark still clung from the odd log, while dried mud mixed with moss filled the gaps in between. The roof, partially covered by moss, was made of cedar shake that had weathered to a soft shade of grey. Attached to the back of the cabin was a lean-to addition also made of logs, but from younger, slimmer trees.
The two front windows, likely the only windows in the squat structure, were the one concession to modernity. Originally they’d probably been only one log high and without glass, but their height had since been extended to a second log with glass inserted into the openings. They didn’t look openable.
A metal chimney was the other concession to modernity. Its glistening chrome newness seemed a betrayal of the earthiness of the dwelling. But in the interests of safety, it had probably replaced an older tin chimney that had become a fire hazard.
Over the planked door hung a strange animal carving barely recognizable after years of punishing weather, but I did make out a pair of very large teeth and two beady eyes that seemed to bore into me as I passed under.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My clan,” the elder replied. “Amik. You call beaver.”
I should’ve guessed. Amik was her last name.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark interior, my nose absorbed a cornucopia of aromas, from pine and balsam to tangy, sweet smells I couldn’t identify. Finally the dimly lit room emerged into view. It wasn’t large, about the size of the Three Deer Point dining room, which would make it about fifteen feet by twenty. I realized that apart from the lean-to addition visible through an open doorway, this was the only room.
Against the far wall was a simple kitchen recognized by the open shelving stacked with canned goods, bags of flour, and other food items. A couple of frying pans hung from nails hammered into the log wall, and underneath them stood a long wooden table with a clutter of utensils, several pots, a propane camp stove, and a metal basin.
These last two items made me realize that Summer Gr
ass Woman didn’t have electricity or water, which would have to be her choice, since directly across the road, Jid’s aunt’s house was fully equipped with both. In fact, the hydro lines ran across the front of Summer Grass Woman’s property.
She ignited the propane stove, poured water from a metal urn into a dented copper kettle, and placed it onto the flaming burner.
“Sit,” she ordered.
While Sergei had already decided that the worn wooden floor suited him perfectly, for me the choice was more difficult. I felt I shouldn’t sit on her bed with its polished brass frame and fur coverings, but the only other possibility was a red velvet armchair with the plush almost completely gone from the arms and the seat. Clearly that was her chair, so I lowered myself onto a pile of furs on top of a low wooden platform near a cast iron stove.
This stove was the newest item in the room, along with the fireproof matting screwed into the wooden floor beneath it and the log wall behind. The wall mat, however, didn’t completely hide the charred surface of the underlying logs. Rising from the stove was the shiny new chrome chimney. As with most old people set in their ways, it had probably required someone else to notice the danger the old stove presented. I wondered if it was Eric who’d had it replaced, since as far as I knew, Summer Grass Woman didn’t have family of her own.
“You need special tea,” she said as she passed through a doorway into the lean-to addition. I could see a variety of dried plants hanging from the ceiling and walls and several birchbark baskets on another long wooden table.
She returned with a small birchbark basket and her smudge bowl, which worried me. It was my intention to stay as long as politeness dictated then drive to Somerset to buy my evening’s entertainment, a bottle of lemon vodka. But it looked as if Summer Grass Woman had other plans.
“I’m afraid I only have time for a quick cup of tea,” I said, struggling to make myself comfortable on the furs.
“Tea good. You like.” She threw some dried bits of plants from the basket into a porcelain teapot covered in pink rosebuds. “Shingwàk, pine you call. Bring harmony.”
“I’m sure it will be very tasty, but I really can’t stay long.”
“Pfft.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You not happy. You drink. Not good.”
I’d been found out.
She sprinkled some dried cedar into the smudge bowl and lit it. “This better.”
I made one more attempt, which was ignored, so I resigned myself to her tea. Besides, the liquor store didn’t close until ten p.m. I had loads of time. I patted down the furs and tried to get comfortable again.
“Sit there.” She pointed to the velvet chair.
I hesitated. She, with her arthritis, needed it more than I did.
“Better for you,” she insisted.
So I sank gratefully into the chair, even if it sagged a bit in the seat, while she, after placing the tea pot, two porcelain cups and the smudge bowl on the floor between us, nestled herself into the furs with an ease that came from years of practice. I realized this was her regular seat. The chair was for visitors.
With her eyes closed, she began fanning the smudge with her eagle feather and chanting softly. Figuring I might as well get into the mood, I closed my eyes as well. The cedar smoke mingled with the other earthy aromas and seemed to transport me into the depths of a forest. I felt as if I was sitting in front of a campfire surrounded by the darkness of night. As I swayed with the rhythm of her chanting, I found myself humming. The sounds, the smells caressed my body, my mind. I felt the tension ease away. And then I realized she’d stopped chanting.
I opened my eyes slowly.
A broad smile spread across her face. “Good. Time for tea.”
She poured the reddish liquid into the two cups and nodded for me to take mine. It tasted slightly bitter, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I noticed a couple of pine needles resting on the bottom of the cup, along with what could’ve been part of a pine flower.
She said nothing, just watched me.
I didn’t feel the need to talk either. Feeling this occasion no longer suited a chair, I moved down onto the floor and crossed my legs on the thick black bear pelt she’d passed me. The hot liquid flowed through me as the cedar smoke continued to swirl around us. I finished the tea, and she poured more. A woodpecker tapped on one of the outside walls. Through the open door I could hear the wind rustling the trees. It tickled my hair. I sat there absorbing the silence. I felt a calm.
Finally she said, “Tell me child, why not happy?”
So I told her about my fears for Eric, worried he was in some way be involved in Becky’s murder and terrified he might be dead too. I told her how helpless I felt, wanting to do something to help find him, but not knowing how. And I even revealed how much I loved him, that he was my other half. If he were to die, I would die too.
“But not die. He come back. You marry. Live happy.”
And for a moment I believed her, really wanted to believe her. Then I laughed bitterly and said, “It’s ridiculous. It could never happen.”
“Why not, child?”
“Because Eric won’t want me.” I braced myself with another cup of tea and told her what I’d never admitted to anyone before. “I killed my brother.”
I told her the whole story, hiding nothing, with none of the half-truths I’d told my mother. It was time I owned up to what I’d done on that dreadful January day more than thirty years ago, when I was thirteen and Joey was seven.
A rare blizzard had descended on Toronto and left more than a foot of the white fluffy stuff. Perfect for tobogganing, I’d thought. But my mother forbade me, saying it would be too dangerous, and with Nanny on her day off, there would be no one to watch me. I kept arguing with her, insisting I was old enough to go on my own, until she finally sent me in a fit of tears to my room. As I headed upstairs, I could hear Joey in the kitchen whining about going tobogganing.
A short while later, I saw her car heading out of the driveway and figured she was off to some stupid ladies tea or her bridge club and wouldn’t be back for hours. I snuck back downstairs, careful to avoid the housekeeper, who would no doubt squeal on me, and headed to the kitchen, where I knew the cook would be more sympathetic. Joey was sitting at the table drinking hot chocolate, while I could hear the cook in the pantry.
“Do you want to go tobogganing?” I whispered to my brother, who was small for his size and like me had the carrot red hair of our father, and his freckles too. He nodded vigorously. After yelling to Shelley that we were going outside to make a snowman, we headed to the garage where the toboggan was kept then raced away to the hill.
Now this wasn’t just any hill — we lived near a ravine not far from a golf course. The older kids bragged about it having the steepest hill in town. But I’d never gone down it myself, since my mother wouldn’t let me. So of course we went there and found lots of other kids, most of them older, zooming down the hill on their sleds and toboggans. I did feel a bit queasy at the sharp drop. Even Joey hesitated, but I figured if the big kids could do it, so could we.
We piled onto the toboggan and down we hurtled, screaming and yelling like everyone else at the rush of wind and speed. I had to keep my eyes closed most of the way, because the snow kept flying into my face. Joey almost fell off when we hit a big bump and the toboggan went flying into the air, but I grabbed him and we made it to the bottom, barely missing a big tree. There were a lot of trees at the bottom.
Then we huffed and puffed up the hill, dragging the toboggan behind. Boy, it was hard, but we made it to the top, and down we went again. We did it several more times, then Joey started whining that he was tired. He wanted to go home. But I wasn’t ready to quit. I wanted to have one more run, but I couldn’t leave him up on the top all alone, so I made him come with me, even though he started to cry. But he was a crybaby anyways — any little thing set him off.
Down we raced, really fast. All the kids going up and down the big hill had made the snow really smooth. It was ev
en icy in spots. It felt like we were flying. Then I saw some kids coming up the hill, right in our path. I yelled at them to get out of the way while Joey shrieked at the top of his lungs. I could tell it wasn’t from excitement. He was scared and I was too. I managed to swerve the toboggan around the kids, but the front caught on the edge of their sled and sent us sideways. We hit a big bump and went flying off the toboggan. I landed in a pile of snow with the toboggan on top of me. But Joey … Joey, he flew into a tree, a really big one.
For a moment I thought he was okay. I thought I saw him move, but when I got to him I realized he was too still. His head was at a funny angle. Then I started screaming.
“I don’t remember much after that, Summer Grass Woman. I just remember the older kids coming to help, the men in the ambulance and the police, and most of all, my mother yelling and shaking me with all her hatred. Joey was the apple of her eye. He reminded her of our dead father.
“And I did one more terrible thing. I lied. I so wanted that hatred in her eyes to disappear that I pretended it was all my brother’s fault. I told her that he was the one who’d insisted we go tobogganing, that he’d kept crying until I relented. I told her I’d planned to go to a smaller hill, but Joey had cried to go down the biggest. In fact, he was about to go down the hill on his own when I managed to jump on the back of the toboggan as it was starting down. And of course I told her that he was the one who’d wanted that one last run, not me.”
I suddenly stopped speaking. The words were gone from me. Tears coursed down my cheeks. My whole body was shaking. I had to use two hands to try to keep the teacup steady as I brought it to my lips.
Summer Grass Woman continued to sit as she had throughout my confession, completely still and expressionless. I waited for the loathing, the accusation to appear in her eyes, the way it had continued to lurk behind my mother’s eyes since that terrible day.
“Your mama, you tell her this true story?”
I slowly shook my head. “No, I’ve never told anyone what I’ve told you today.”
A Green Place for Dying Page 15